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COBWEB 


JW  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


BOOKS  BY 
GEORGE  AGNEW  CHAMBERLAIN 

COBWEB 

HOME 

THROUGH  STAINED  GLASS 

JOHN  BOGARDUS 

WHITE  MAN 

NOT  ALL  THE  KING'S  HORSES 

TAXI 

PIGS  TO  MARKET 

IS  MEXICO  WORTH  SAVING? 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 
ESTABLISHED   1817 


By 

George  Agnew  Chamberlain 

Author  of 
"HOME"  "WHITE  MAN"  Etc. 


HARPER  6*  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK   AND    LONDON 


COBWEB 

Copyright,  1921,  by  George  Agnew  Chamberlain 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


COBWEB 


2126187 


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Chapter  One 

MR.  C.  G.  RITTENHOUSE  BOURNE  stepped 
into  the  elevator  of  the  eminently  respectable 
hotel  which  had  housed  him  through  the  summer 
months  and  absent-mindedly  considered  the 
wine  -colored  pressed  leather  of  its  paneling. 
He  was  more  than  half-consciously  aware  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  in  a  brown  study  and  it  struck 
him  that  a  brown  study  went  well  with  wine- 
colored  paneling. 

Out  of  this  blank,  this  hiatus  of  the  faculties 
of  perception  and  involuntary  suspension  of  the 
rules  of  proper  deportment,  he  stared  steadily, 
comprehensively,  but  quite  unseeing,  at  the  only 
other  passenger  in  the  car  until  he  was  suddenly 
brought  out  of  coma  into  precipitous  motion 
by  the  rasping  voice  of  the  operator  repeating 
in  a  loud  voice,  "Your  floor,  Mr.  Bourne,"  and 
adding  in  a  meanful  undertone,  "unless  you  wish 
to  ride  to  the  roof,  sir." 

Mr.  Bourne  strode  swiftly  toward  his  room, 
but  halfway  down  the  spacious,  empty  hall  he 

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stopped  as  suddenly  as  though  he  had  been 
bridled  and  a  rough  hand  had  caught  up  the 
curb  rein.  He  assumed  a  rigid  position  and 
with  narrowed  eyes  summoned  back  in  minute 
detail  the  lingering  vision  of  the  other  passenger, 
which,  independently  of  any  volition  on  his  part, 
had  been  stamped  on  the  allotted  photographic 
tablet  of  his  brain  as  securely  as  though  it  had 
been  filed  in  a  cabinet  for  future  reference. 

Bourne  at  thirty  was  a  novice  in  none  of  the 
elementals  of  life.  There  were  indications  in 
his  erect  carriage,  carelessly  worn  clothes,  and 
in  the  engaging  openness  of  his  countenance 
which  seemed  to  proclaim  that  here  was  a  man 
who  had  both  played  and  worked,  studied  and 
frivoled,  taken  root  and  torn  himself  away,  spent 
a  great  deal  of  money  and  earned  a  little.  He 
was  not  an  average  American;  he  was  just  that 
much  above  the  mean  in  physical  equipment 
as  it  takes  to  make  a  stroke  oar  against  the 
competition  within  the  limits  of  a  university. 
In  culture  he  had  the  advantage  of  a  well-to- 
do  father  who  was  impatient  of  the  petty  en- 
gagements of  the  social  treadmill  and  yet  had 
been  in  no  hurry  to  see  his  son  in  harness. 

"Travel,  my  boy,"  the  elder  Bourne  had 
exclaimed  on  a  memorable  occasion.  "  To  blazes 
with  tennis,  golf,  and  regatta  fixtures;  forget  the 

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conclave  of  coaches  for  the  fall  football  season. 
The  man  who  stops  to  play  with  his  college  years 
just  after  they  are  over  is  like  a  boy  in  long 
trousers  hankering  after  marbles.  He's  faced 
the  wrong  way.  Plenty  of  time  to  go  back  and 
really  help  if  you  will  only  go  on  somewhere  first. 
Move.  Head  out  to  sea." 

So  Bourne  had  been  widely  abroad,  twice  at 
his  father's  expense  and  once  in  the  pay  of  his 
government,  the  last  a  lively  sojourn  closely 
connected  in  its  small  way  with  the  collapse 
of  the  Central  Powers. 

All  this  has  been  said  not  as  an  introduction 
to  Bourne,  but  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  no 
usual  or  insignificant  occurrence  could  have  made 
him  stop  stock  still  in  a  deserted  hallway  and 
stare  with  eyes  thoroughly  alive  at  something 
they  had  blindly  seen  in  the  immediate  past. 
Something  had  happened  in  the  elevator,  some- 
thing extraordinary  and  unforgetable.  What- 
ever that  something  had  been,  Bourne  was  now 
reviewing  its  occurrence  not  as  an  unattached 
incident,  but  with  all  the  detailed  adjuncts 
which  lend  meaning  to  any  given  event,  in  itself 
of  little  importance. 

The  vision  which  filled  his  eyes  was  the 
memory  of  his  fellow  passenger.  She  was  girl 
or  woman,  somewhere  in  the  uncharted  years 

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between  twenty-one  and  thirty,  but  her  age  had 
no  bearing  on  his  retrospective  interest.  What 
amazed  him  in  the  course  of  his  vivid  recollection, 
short  of  the  astounding  climax  of  the  event  of 
little  importance,  was  that  his  brown  study  had 
not  surrendered  at  once  to  the  discovery  of  one 
of  those  too-seldom  recurring  breaks  in  the 
monotonous  line  of  pampered  womanhood  which 
divide  the  existences  of  lucky  men  into  epochs. 

Sheer  feminine  beauty  is  a  common  enough 
sight  to  those  who  walk  the  streets  of  its  mightiest 
market,  for  with  the  simultaneous  advent  of  the 
cabaret,  the  night  theater,  the  moving-picture 
agency,  and  an  astonishing  flood  of  ready 
money  it  has  become  a  primal  instinct  among 
pretty  faces  from  far  and  wide  to  turn  toward  the 
clearing  house  of  Broadway  as  naturally  as  the 
sunflower  follows  its  golden  god.  On  the  other 
hand,  distinction  has  become  rare  within  the 
confines  of  Manhattan.  Its  sum  in  individuals 
may  not  have  changed,  but  it  has  been  crowded 
out  of  the  public  eye,  smothered  by  the  over- 
whelming influx  of  the  outlander. 

The  girl  in  the  elevator  had  added  distinction 
to  beauty  of  a  peculiar  type.  Bourne's  well- 
trained  sense  of  values  established  that  premise 
without  question,  but  when  it  came  to  determin- 
ing whether  her  uniqueness  in  a  standardized 

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world  arose  from  breeding  or  from  marked 
anatomical  divergence,  his  judgment  hesitated, 
hung  poised,  and  then  tipped  the  balance  away 
from  Knickerbocker  heredity  and  in  favor  of  the 
less  subtle  solution  of  physical  appearance.  She 
was  remarkable  because  she  looked  it. 

The  startling  factor  in  the  indelible  impression 
she  had  made  on  his  momentarily  suspended 
senses  was  the  conjunction  of  pallor  and  health. 
Women  who  are  pale  by  no  trick  of  thinned 
blood  or  cosmetics  or  seclusion  in  darkened 
rooms,  but  by  a  rare  disposition  of  the  constella- 
tions which  govern  the  intricacies  of  birth,  have 
always  stood  out  brightly,  often  fatefully,  against 
the  drab  background  of  humanity  in  the  bulk. 
Above  all  others  of  their  sex,  they  have  reversed 
the  objectivity  of  the  universe,  taking  the  world 
for  a  plaything  instead  of  being  the  playthings  of 
the  world. 

The  girl  had  stood  with  both  hands  resting  on 
the  handle  of  a  high  parasol,  her  figure  erect,  her 
shoulders  slightly  braced,  her  face  upturned  and 
quite  immobile.  From  head  to  foot  she  was 
dressed  in  a  harmony  of  shades  which  blended  so 
among  themselves  and  at  the  same  time  were 
welded  so  vividly  into  the  wine-colored  wainscot- 
ing of  the  elevator  that  she  seemed  a  still-life 
picture  painted  flat  upon  a  panel.  On  her  head 

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she  wore  a  floppy  hat  of  sunshine-yellow,  trimmed 
with  brown-eyed  Susans.  The  same  note  of 
brown  shone  in  her  eyes,  the  same  tone  of  re- 
flected light  faintly  enlivened  the  smooth  pallor 
of  her  cheeks.  Her  linen  dress  was  of  tan  with 
wide  fluted  ruffles  of  white  at  the  open  neck  and 
flaring  from  each  wrist.  The  lines  of  her  body 
were  veiled,  but  there  was  the  suggestion  of 
length  that  is  never  absent  from  the  human 
frame  when  it  is  nobly  proportioned. 

The  air  of  distinction  lay  lightly  upon  her, 
as  though  it  hovered,  not  quite  sure  of  welcome. 
It  was  as  if  there  were  a  division  between  it  and 
its  objective,  as  if  it  fluttered  over  her  imperson- 
ality half  determined  to  paint  the  lily,  and  the 
lily  answered  with  serene  indifference,  "I  am  a 
flower."  Bourne  was  aware  in  memory  even  of 
her  half-dropped  eyelids,  of  their  astonishing 
whiteness,  like  the  curved  petals  of  a  paper  rose. 
The  dark  lashes  were  set  upon  them  in  startling 
contrast — shadows  cast  on  snow — and  it  was 
from  beneath  their  shelter  that  the  astounding 
event  sprang  out  upon  him.  Even  as  he  turned 
to  leave  the  elevator  a  single  great  tear  had 
squeezed  over  the  tender  barrier  that  opposed  it, 
raced  slow,  then  fast  down  the  oval  of  her  cheek, 
and  leaped  to  destruction. 

That  tear  had  been  as  surprising  as  a  single 
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drop  of  rain  from  a  clear  sky.  It  had  been  pre- 
ceded by  not  the  slightest  facial  convulsion  of 
weeping;  it  had  brought  about  no  change  in  the 
immobility  of  expression  in  the  girl's  still  face; 
it  had  just  happened,  apparently  without  her 
volition  or  consent  or  even  knowledge.  It  was 
a  rogue  tear,  broken  away  from  the  herd,  com- 
plete in  itself  and  busy  with  an  individual  mission. 

It  is  difficult  to  measure  the  strength  of  the 
emotions  aroused  in  Bourne  by  this  trifling 
occurrence.  When  he  stopped  short  in  the  hall 
at  the  first  full  realization  of  what  had  happened 
he  was  immediately  excited  and  tormented  by  a 
host  of  questions.  Why  had  that  one  tear  fallen? 
Was  it  because  of  the  rudeness  and  persistence  of 
his  blank  stare?  Hardly.  As  he  looked  back 
he  was  sure  that  the  girl  had  been  in  as  deep  a 
brown  study  as  his  own.  He  was  equally  sure 
that  the  tear  had  nothing  to  do  with  food,  shelter, 
or  the  less  elementary  divisions  of  want,  for  no 
little  part  of  the  effect  of  refinement  which  the 
stranger  conveyed  could  be  attributed  to  that 
placid  atmosphere  which  imbues  people  who 
habitually  do  not  think  of  money.  She  had  not 
the  appearance  of  opulence,  but  of  easy  security. 

Whence,  then,  that  tear?  Could  it  have  arisen 
from  the  sources  of  unrequited  love?  Bourne 
shook  his  head  in  denial.  Experience  had  ac- 

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quainted  him  with  the  extraordinary  mobility 
of  expression  which  haunts  the  faces  of  women 
in  the  grip  of  the  master  passion.  The  joy  and 
the  misery  of  a  woman  in  love  are  unmistakable; 
to  the  initiated  they  are  painted  boldly  across 
the  features  and  escape  general  detection  only 
by  virtue  of  the  individual  egoism  that  blinds  the 
public  gaze.  No,  the  pale  girl  was  not  in  love. 
He  was  sure  of  it;  nor  could  he  conceive  that 
the  lone  tear  arose  from  any  purely  incidental 
disappointment. 

With  a  characteristic  shrug  of  one  shoulder  he 
attempted  to  shake  off  the  puzzle  and  proceeded 
slowly  to  his  room,  but  when  he  had  entered  and 
slammed  the  door  behind  him  his  first  move  was 
to  sit  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  stare 
absorbedly  at  the  floor.  Apparently  the  puzzle 
had  no  intention  of  being  lightly  thrown;  it  was 
going  to  ride  him.  He  frowned  at  himself  as  the 
sanest  men  do  when  they  are  alone.  What  a 
fool  he  had  been.  Why  had  he  not  continued  in 
the  elevator  to  the  roof,  if  necessary,  and  said, 
as  casually  as  possible,  "Is  there  anything  I  can 
do?" 

No  sooner  had  he  given  birth  to  that  thought 
than  he  began  to  despise  himself  for  its  true 
motive.  If  the  woman  had  been  ugly  or  old  or 
painted  or  commonplace,  the  tear  would  have 

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meant  nothing  to  him  beyond  a  moment's  idle 
speculation.  It  was  because  the  girl,  as  he  re- 
membered her  more  and  more  vividly,  was  un- 
usual and  entrancing,  because  she  filled  the  eye 
and  tantalized  the  mind,  because  the  tear  itself 
was  not  as  other  tears,  but  rounder,  more  lucent, 
and  inexplicably  precious  in  the  face  of  its 
reckless  self-destruction,  that  he  could  not  turn 
his  thoughts  to  weightier  matters.  His  whole 
mind  had  been  kidnapped  by  a  runaway  drop 
of  saline  water. 

Such  being  the  accomplished  fact,  it  remained 
for  him  to  decide  what  he  was  going  to  do  about 
it.  The  most  practical  step  toward  establishing 
the  identity  of  the  stranger  would  be  to  approach 
the  elevator  attendant  with  a  two-dollar  bill. 
That  alone  would  not  get  him  very  far,  as  the 
girl  must  certainly  be  a  recent  arrival,  else  his 
discovery  of  her  would  have  occurred  sooner. 
In  all  probability  her  name  would  be  known 
only  at  the  office.  Some  hotels,  like  clubs  and 
banks  of  good  standing,  guard  the  privacy  of 
their  patrons  by  every  means  in  their  power,  but 
Bourne  was  aware  that  even  such  a  model  of 
institutional  deportment  as  the  dignified  hos- 
telry he  inhabited  could  be  outwitted.  Waiters' 
checks  had  to  be  signed  and  waiters  are  notori- 
ously amenable  to  cash  argument.  There  were 

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other  ways,  but  the  individual  elevator  boy 
who  might  be  expected  to  remember  the  girl 
was  a  necessary  first  link  in  any  chain. 

He  half  arose  to  go  out  and  make  a  start,  but 
sank  back  as  if  a  light  yet  firm  hand  had  been 
laid  on  his  shoulder.  The  thought  had  come  to 
him  that  already  a  quality  of  gossamer  hung 
upon  this  chance  encounter,  a  veiling  mist  of 
fancy  which  would  be  torn  beyond  repair  by  the 
intrusion  of  any  of  the  sordid  agents  of  hotel 
acquaintanceships.  To  his  own  astonishment, 
he  felt  that  he  had  been  on  the  verge  of  a  vandal- 
ism, of  committing  the  incongruity  of  investigat- 
ing the  dust  on  butterflies'  wings  with  a  borrowed 
grimy  finger.  Then  his  absorbed  eyes  fell  on  a 
half-packed  bag  and  he  awoke  to  the  fact  that 
he  had  just  eighteen  minutes  to  catch  his  train. 

There  is  nothing  that  will  clear  the  mind  of 
idle  speculations  in  romance  like  just  eighteen 
minutes  to  catch  a  train.  Bourne  was  an 
experienced  week-ender.  In  four  of  the  eighteen 
minutes  he  had  completed  his  packing  and  was 
at  the  telephone  ordering  porter  and  taxi;  then 
he  stared  at  his  bag  and  in  imagination  pains- 
takingly garbed  himself  for  the  night,  for  the  day, 
and  for  the  evening.  A  black  tie  was  missing, 
as  usual.  He  snatched  one  from  the  dresser, 
tucked  it  into  his  pocket  to  save  time,  and  then 

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patted  all  his  other  pockets,  murmuring,  "Money, 
keys,  smokes,  matches,  handkerchief,  mileage." 
He  gave  a  satisfied  nod  and  opened  the  door  to  the 
porter's  knock. 

On  the  train,  which  he  caught  with  two  minutes 
to  spare,  he  found  himself  divided  between  an 
inclination  to  return  to  his  preoccupation  regard- 
ing the  person  of  mystery  and  wonder  as  to  why 
Boies  Stephen  had  been  so  determined  on  his 
breaking  other  engagements  to  spend  that  par- 
ticular Sunday  with  him.  The  prosaic  land- 
scape, the  insistence  at  every  stage  in  the 
journey  of  the  commonplace  and  of  the  thor- 
oughly expected,  proved  the  death  of  romance  in 
the  bud.  The  Bourne  of  hah"  an  hour  ago  began 
to  appear  to  the  Bourne  of  the  moment  a  com- 
pletely ridiculous  day  dreamer.  In  his  new 
mood  he  lost  all  curiosity  even  as  to  Boies's  im- 
pending revelations,  and  turned  to  a  soporific 
reading  of  the  evening  paper,  news,  editorial 
columns,  advertisements,  and  all. 

He  was  met  at  the  station  by  Stephen,  who, 
after  a  first  greeting,  drove  him  in  silence 
through  familiar,  fronded  streets,  around  well- 
remembered  corners,  and  along  the  bay  shore. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  experience  Bourne  was 
shocked  by  the  discovery  that  large  areas  of  the 
suburban  world  are  inexpressibly  flat,  irre- 
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spective  of  the  contours  of  the  soil.  It  seemed 
to  his  newly  troubled  senses  of  perception  that 
the  country  homes  of  the  wealthy  surrounding 
his  native  city  seldom  symbolized  hill,  dale,  and 
meadowland,  but  proclaimed  in  proud  tones, 
"So  many  acres!"  and  that  the  homes  of  the 
near  wealthy  never  touched  that  cord  in  the 
human  heart  which  vibrates  to  the  thought  of 
embowered  coziness  hidden  in  a  narrow  lane,  but 
cried  out,  "This  is  a  double  lot,  two  hundred  feet 
deep."  The  absence  of  fences  and  walls  pro- 
duced a  sort  of  communal  beauty  at  the  price  of 
a  general  rubbing  of  elbows;  windows  glared  at 
one  another;  privacy  was  nowhere. 

It  was  in  this  mood  that  he  arrived  at  the 
Stephen  place,  somewhat  more  pretentious  in 
appearance  and  setting  than  its  neighbors,  but 
still  very  much  in  the  public  eye.  As  he  stepped 
from  the  motor  the  black  tie  which  he  had  stuffed 
hurriedly  into  his  pocket  fell  to  the  ground. 
Boies  Stephen  picked  it  up,  handed  it  to  him, 
and  said,  with  a  faint,  forced  smile: 

"  You  won't  be  needing  that,  old  top.  No  dress- 
ing in  this  shack  to-night  or  any  other  night." 

They  entered  the  house  and  Bourne  was 
struck  at  once  by  its  air  of  desertion,  all  the 
more  remarkable  for  the  fact  that  everything 
in  the  great  living  room  was  as  he  had  expected 

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COBWEB 

to  find  it.  The  filigree  screen  of  ebony,  a  present 
from  himself,  standing  in  dark  silhouette  before 
the  cavernous  mouth  of  the  big  fireplace;  the 
cushions  in  used  disorder;  the  rugs,  one  rumpled 
as  from  the  pounce  of  a  child  in  play;  the  chairs 
still  set  in  the  positions  of  some  recent  con- 
versational gathering,  all  seemed  to  assert  oc- 
cupancy and  yet  were  indescribably  mute. 

A  house  can  be  empty  and  still  speak  of  chil- 
dren in  some  near-by  field  or  of  its  mistress 
hurrying  to  return.  Expectancy  is  not  a  quality 
of  the  mind  alone;  it  fills  a  room,  stirs  draperies, 
rests  like  a  tangible  but  invisible  bloom  on 
silently  waiting  tables  and  chairs,  and  knits 
the  inanimate  fixtures  of  a  home,  enlivened  by  its 
subtle  pervasion,  into  the  warp  and  woof  of 
family  life.  It  was  the  total  absence  of  this  ac- 
customed air  that  struck  Bourne  immediately 
upon  his  entrance. 

"Look  here,  Boies,"  he  exclaimed,  pausing  in 
his  stride,  "what's  become  of  the  kids?" 

Stephen  tossed  his  hat  and  his  guest's  on  a 
corner  table  and  turned  to  take  a  match  from  the 
mantel.  He  lit  a  cigarette  with  exaggerated 
deliberation  and  stared  at  the  flame  until  it 
threatened  to  burn  his  fingers.  "They're  not 
here,"  he  said,  dropping  the  cinder  on  the 
hearth.  "I  have  sent  them  over  to  my  mother's 

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COBWEB 

for  a  while.  Now  don't  rush  yourself,"  he  added. 
"Sit  down  and  stretch  out  your  legs.  My  fast- 
diminishing  stock  of  wassail  still  can  offer  you  a 
welcoming  cup." 

He  pressed  a  bell  button,  and  presently  a  maid 
appeared  bearing  a  tray  with  decanter  and 
glasses.  Bourne  was  not  deceived  by  the  flip- 
pant words  of  his  host;  he  obeyed,  he  sat  down 
and  drank  his  drink  with  grateful  appreciation 
of  the  quality  of  the  liquor,  but  he  was  not 
put  at  ease.  He  frowned  steadily  at  the  somber 
fire  screen  and  tried  to  conjure  images  of  the 
children  and  their  mother  back  into  the  room. 
He  could  not  quite  summon  the  youngsters 
without  the  aid  of  their  accustomed  whoops  of 
welcome,  but  Amelie  came  clearly  to  his  vision. 

He  had  always  wondered  about  her.  She 
was  the  wife  of  his  best  friend;  he  had  known 
her  longer  and  seen  her  in  more  of  the  moods  of 
wholesome  life  than  any  other  woman  of  his 
acquaintance,  yet  she  had  always  left  a  question 
in  his  mind.  She  was  one  of  those  individuals 
who  are  never  altogether  penetrable,  not  from 
depth  nor  from  the  spread  of  their  byways  of 
personality,  but  because  they  offer  to  themselves 
no  clear  answer  to  such  basic  questions  as :  "  Why 
am  I  here?  Whither  am  I  going?"  and  con- 
sequently carry  no  sure  message  to  others. 

14 


COBWEB 

Even  so,  this  quality  of  impenetrableness  had 
seemed  to  lend  her  a  security  beyond  that  of  the 
average  woman  of  her  class.  She  was  not  easily 
approachable;  she  shed  off  intimacies  as  a  duck 
sheds  water,  and  yet  in  all  social  amenities  she 
showed  an  affability  that  was  not  skin  deep  like 
an  acquired  veneer,  but  the  hall-mark  of  an 
inherited  tradition.  Such  being  the  case,  one 
was  led  to  imagine  her  unusually  freed  of  or- 
dinary temptations,  and  Bourne  could  under- 
stand why  she  should  have  stood  up  to  matri- 
mony more  successfully  than  the  majority  of 
the  married  women  in  his  circle,  but  frowned  in 
bewilderment  at  the  suspicion  that  the  question 
she  had  always  left  hi  his  mind  had  at  last  borne 
some  kind  of  fruit. 

He  recalled  her  clearly  as  he  had  last  seen  her 
in  this  room,  her  brown  hair  parted  a  little  to 
one  side  and  dressed  to  the  high  crest  of  its 
natural  wave.  The  slimness  of  her  figure  in  a 
cherry-colored  gown,  the  length  and  roundness 
of  her  bare  arms,  the  peculiar  twist  of  her  mobile 
lips,  the  vividness  of  the  coloring  in  her  flushed 
cheeks  were  all  dominated  by  the  brilliancy 
of  her  dark  eyes,  which  spoke  loudly  of  vitality, 
but  even  in  the  most  unguarded  moment  gave  no 
whisper  of  the  soul. 

Stephen  uncrossed  his  knees  and  leaned  for- 
15 


COBWEB 

ward  to  toss  the  butt  of  his  cigarette  into  the 
fireplace;  then  he  turned  squarely  toward 
Bourne  and  made  the  statement  which  had  been 
impending  throughout  the  long  silence.  "Ritt, 
Amelie  has  left  me." 


Chapter  Two 

IT  was  characteristic  of  the  two  friends  that  they 
did  not  plunge  immediately  into  a  discussion  of 
cause  and  effect.  Bourne  made  no  reply  what- 
ever to  Stephen's  declaration.  He  arose,  walked 
aimlessly  around  the  room,  and  then  suggested  a 
tour  of  the  garden.  They  walked  out  hatless, 
examined  the  model  chicken-run,  the  half- 
finished  tennis  court,  the  poplar  windbreak  which 
was  just  getting  nicely  started,  and  then  stopped 
to  stare  long  and  silently  at  the  children's  sand- 
pile  under  a  wide-spreading,  lonely  apple  tree. 

The  maid  came  out  to  announce  dinner.  They 
followed  her  into  the  house,  each  immersed  in  his 
own  thoughts,  and  took  opposite  seats  at  the 
square,  candle-lighted  table.  Had  two  women 
found  themselves  thus  alone  with  an  absorbing 
subject  waiting  to  be  thrashed  out,  it  would  not 
have  waited.  It  would  have  popped  to  the 
surface  with  the  soup,  and  all  subsequent 
courses  would  have  been  subjected  to  the 
ignominy  of  being  picked  at  with  only  the  most 
casual  appreciation.  But  men  are  different. 
They  have  an  age-long  respect  for  the  etiquette 
of  food.  For  generations  past  and  through  gen- 
erations to  come  this  deference  to  the  eating 

17 


COBWEB 

board  has  and  will  be  the  subject  of  mockery,  but 
only  because  it  is  misunderstood.  Amcng  men 
of  even  moderate  culture  it  is  not  founded  upon 
greed,  but  is  a  mere  item  in  a  broad  system  of 
tolerance  which  takes  comfort  in  giving  fair 
play  to  each  of  the  varied  elements  of  every-day 
life. 

Thus  business  is  seldom  talked  at  men's  busi- 
ness luncheons,  but  after  them;  and  thus 
Stephen  and  Bourne  talked  on  the  most  general 
topics  with  long,  frankly  gastronomical  pauses, 
even  while  their  minds  were  dominated  by  the 
slowly  gathering  forces  of  an  impending  sober 
and  intimate  communion.  Occasionally  they 
measured  each  other  with  mildly  speculative 
glances;  for  a  man  seldom  knows  his  friend  of  the 
moment.  He  knows  the  college  mate  of  yester- 
day and  the  schoolfellow  of  the  days  before,  but 
the  companion  of  a  present  hour  must  be  bal- 
anced anew,  especially  during  the  first  years  of 
contact  with  the  open  world. 

Stephen  was  the  very  junior  member  of  an 
exceedingly  old  law  firm;  his  annual  income 
from  this  and  other  sources  was  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  fourteen  thousand  dollars,  with  assur- 
ance of  steady  increase.  In  all  legal  matters  he 
was  a  sharp-faced  youth  of  quick  perception. 
As  a  consequence,  a  mere  glance  at  a  letter 

18 


COBWEB 

written  by  his  firm  to  an  up-state  lawyer  who 
had  suddenly  come  to  the  fore  as  a  master  of  new 
aspects  in  international  law,  offering  him  a  full 
partnership  and  a  guaranteed  retainer  of  eighty 
thousand  dollars  a  year,  had  set  the  young  man 
to  thinking.  Why  was  this  country  bumpkin 
worth  so  large  a  fee?  Because  the  war  had 
proved  a  forcing  house  for  a  single  essential 
aptitude,  ready  equipped  to  meet  an  imminent 
demand. 

The  hint  had  proved  more  than  sufficient. 
Stephen  had  promptly  taken  international  litiga- 
tion for  his  slogan,  and  for  two  months  had  been 
putting  himself  through  a  course  of  reading  more 
severe  than  the  hardest  cramming  of  his  student 
days.  Without  taking  anyone  into  his  confidence, 
he  was  determined  to  prepare  himself  for  a  place 
in  what  promised  to  be  the  van  of  his  profession. 

Bourne's  position  is  less  easily  defined.  In  the 
first  place,  he  was  the  son  of  John  Elman  Bourne, 
and  without  knowledge  of  the  full  implication  of 
that  monumental  name  in  the  sphere  of  American 
industry,  one  cannot  fully  place  the  son.  He 
was  in  unusual  measure  the  product  of  his  father, 
but  at  the  period  of  this  week-end  visit  he  was 
yet  in  the  process  of  development  and  still  far 
from  being  graduated  as  a  completed  article 
from  the  parental  forge.  Incidentally,  his  in- 

19 


COBWEB 

come,  derived  from  money  left  to  him  by  his 
mother  and  from  varying  salaries  accruing  from 
a  succession  of  positions  in  several  distinct 
branches  of  the  huge  system  of  which  his  father 
was  the  head,  amounted  on  the  average  to  a 
little  more  than  Stephen's.  Technically,  he 
might  be  classified  as  an  industrial  engineer. 

Ten  years  ago  the  circumstances  of  both  these 
young  men,  the  one  with  a  family  and  the  other 
with  thoughtlessly  extravagant  tastes,  would 
have  been  considered  affluent,  but  the  months 
succeeding  the  war  had  gradually  brought  each 
to  his  senses.  Neither  was  conscious  of  having 
changed  his  habits  in  the  slightest  degree,  yet, 
with  the  rest  of  humanity,  each  had  had  to  bow  to 
an  inexorable  fact.  Money  was  not  what  it 
used  to  be.  Under  the  pressure  of  this  peren- 
nially new  truth  it  was  natural  that  Bourne 
should  attempt  to  trace  all  troubles  to  its  single 
source. 

"Boies,"  he  said,  by  way  of  introduction,  when 
they  had  finished  dinner  and  were  lounging  over 
their  cigars  in  the  living  room,  "if  you  were 
hard  up,  why  didn't  you  shout?" 

"Hard  up!"  replied  Stephen,  promptly.  "Who 
isn't  hard  up?"  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  took  a 
quick  step,  and  then  turned  to  face  his  friend. 
"But  that!"  he  exclaimed,  and  snapped  his 

20 


COBWEB 

fingers  contemptuously.    ' '  Money  is  easy  enough 
to  get — easier  than  it  ever  was." 

A  peculiar  change  came  over  his  expression 
and  his  bearing.  While  his  thoughts  had  been 
busy  with  a  practical  equation,  his  stocky  figure 
had  been  erect,  his  dark  eyes  alert,  but  with  the 
dismissal  of  the  concrete  suggestion  he  seemed 
to  slump.  His  chin  dropped  forward  and  he 
stared  through  and  beyond  Bourne  quite  blankly, 
as  though  he  were  dismayed  by  the  necessity 
of  putting  in  words  the  maddeningly  futile 
speculations  which  had  been  tormenting  him. 
Any  legal  puzzle,  however  intricate  or  deep  or 
baffling,  would  have  enlivened  him,  put  him  on 
his  mettle  to  make  clear  to  another  at  least  just 
where  were  the  knots  in  the  tangled  skein;  but 
before  the  least  of  the  million  vagaries  of  eternal 
woman  he  became  limp. 

"What  was  it,  then?"  asked  Bourne,  after  a 
long  pause. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Boies. 

"Didn't  she  tell  you  anything?"  cried  Bourne, 
growing  impatient.  "Did  she  walk  off  without 
saying  a  word?  " 

"Oh  no,"  answered  Stephen,  with  a  shake  of 
his  shoulders  as  though  he  tried  to  wake  himself 
from  a  trance.  "I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  shall 
I?  Just  as  it  happened." 

21 


COBWEB 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Bourne,  heartily.  "That's 
what  you  brought  me  here  for,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  brought  you  here  for," 
repeated  Boies,  absently,  and  then  gathered  his 
wits  for  the  comparatively  easy  task  of  straight 
narrative. 

"Money  didn't  come  into  it  at  all,"  he  began. 
"Of  course,  we  felt  the  pinch  like  everybody  else 
— at  least,  I  did.  Amelie  told  me  three  separate 
times  that  I  would  have  to  increase  her  house 
allowance,  and  I  did.  That's  all  there  was  to 
that.  I  can't  imagine  anyone  ever  asking 
Amelie  what  she  did  with  money.  Can  you?" 

Bourne  paused  before  replying.  Again  he 
found  it  remarkably  easy  to  visualize  Amelie. 
Apparently  he  had  catalogued  her  expressions, 
although  he  was  not  conscious  of  ever  having 
made  a  study  of  them.  He  could  see  the  very 
look  with  which  she  would  have  received  an 
announcement  from  Boies  that  they  had  come 
into  a  million,  and,  much  to  his  surprise,  he  was 
convinced  that  it  was  the  same  look  which 
would  have  greeted  news  that  they  were  penni- 
less. "No,  I  can't,"  he  answered. 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  said  Stephen,  and  con- 
tinued as  though  he  had  been  reading  his  friend's 
thoughts:  "If  you  handed  her  a  check  for  a 
hundred  thousand  or  a  dollar  bill  I  believe  you'd 

22 


COBWEB 

get  the  same  reaction.  If  you  told  her  there 
was  nothing  to  spend,  she  wouldn't  weep  about 
the  children  needing  new  shoes;  she'd  let  them  go 
barefoot.  And  about  the  time  their  stock  of 
clothes  was  giving  out  you'd  find  her  walking 
south  where  they  could  go  naked  and  live.  I 
don't  mean  she  was  heartless,  but  just  everlast- 
ingly practical  without  being  small.  She'd  walk 
through  little  troubles  the  way  you  walk  through 
grass — without  seeing  it.  And  that's  what 
makes  it  so  maddening." 

"Makes  what  so  maddening?" 

"The  whole  confounded  affair,"  continued 
Stephen.  "It  began  when  I  got  back  from  the 
other  side.  I  caught  her  several  times  making  a 
study  of  me  as  you  would  study  a  strange  fish  in 
the  aquarium.  No  affection  in  her  look;  just 
mild  curiosity  with  a  yawn  at  the  end  of  it.  I 
stood  it  for  weeks,  then  finally  I  flew  off  the 
handle  just  after  I  got  in  from  town  early  last 
Saturday  afternoon  with  a  stack  of  books  under 
my  arm  that  made  me  feel  like  a  schoolboy.  I 
asked  her  for  Heaven's  sake  what  was  the  mat- 
ter; to  speak  up  and  get  her  troubles  out  of  her 
system.  She  stared  at  me  for  a  second,  then 
threw  up  her  head  and  looked  away  and  said  she 
was  tired  of  'looking  out  of  windows,'  whatever 
that  meant." 

23 


COBWEB 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  her?" 

"I  did,  but  she  wouldn't  answer.  Instead  she 
said  she  was  tired  of  me,  too,  and  of  the  children, 
and  that  incidentally  she  was  going  away  on  the 
six-ten.  I  knew,  without  asking,  she  meant  she 
was  going  away  for  good.  I  dropped  the  books 
with  a  crash  and  took  a  step  forward;  but  she 
didn't  look  at  me.  Her  body  just  trembled  in 
that  shrinking  way  a  woman's  does  when  she 
doesn't  want  to  be  touched." 

"How  do  you  know  she  didn't  want  to  be 
touched?"  demanded  Bourne. 

Stephen  flashed  at  him  a  look  of  exasperation. 
"What  do  you  think  I'm  made  of?"  he  asked. 
"Do  you  think  I  wouldn't  have  given  a  house  and 
lot  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and  pet  her?  But  I 
knew  better.  There  are  things  a  married  man 
hasn't  a  right  to  say,  but  I'm  feeling  particularly 
unmarried  at  this  moment  and  I  tell  you,  Ritt, 
that  there  are  women  who  can  live  with  a  man 
for  years  without  being  possessed.  I  loved 
Amelie;  I  love  her  now.  As  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned there  isn't  another  woman  in  the  world, 
but  I  never  got  her,  never.  I  can't  expect  you 
to  understand  that;  I  didn't  understand  it  my- 
self until  this  ghastly  week.  It  knocked  me  off 
my  pins  to  look  back  and  check  up  the  moments 
in  our  life  together  that  haven't  been  casual. 

24 


COBWEB 

The  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  that  I  didn't  know 
Amelie  well  enough  to  take  liberties  with  her." 

"Rot!"  said  Bourne. 

"Exactly,"  countered  Boies,  as  though  the 
answer  were  just  what  he  had  expected.  "I 
stood  there,"  he  continued,  "and  fired  questions 
at  her.  I  appealed  to  her  first  on  the  score  of 
the  children,  and  she  said  it  had  always  been  a 
question  in  her  mind  whether  children,  once 
they  were  weaned,  weren't  better  off  without 
parents  than  with.  I  asked  her  if  it  was  money, 
and  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said,  'No.' 
I  asked  her  if  it  was  another  man,  and  she  said, 
'Boies,  you  are  like  a  copybook  reciting  itself 
aloud/  I  tell  you,  Ritt,  she  made  me  feel  like  a 
fool,  and  that's  just  what  I  was.  I  said:  'That's 
no  answer.  Tell  me,  is  it  Ritt  Bourne?' " 

"What?"  cried  Bourne,  springing  to  his  feet  in 
stupefaction  and  advancing  threateningly  tow- 
ard his  friend.  "Look  here,  are  you  joking  or 
are  you  crazy?" 

Stephen  continued  as  though  he  had  not  been 
interrupted.  "All  she  said  to  that  was  that  it 
was  the  next  line  out  of  the  copybook,  the  one 
about  its  always  being  the  man's  best  friend; 
then  she  added  as  a  sort  of  afterthought  that  you 
reminded  her  of  a  stream  just  above  tidewater, 
traveling  one  way  all  the  time  and  moving  slow." 

25 


COBWEB 

In  spite  of  himself,  Bourne's  attention  was 
arrested  as  would  any  man's  be  by  the  sure  lure 
of  a  woman's  valuation  of  himself.  He  tried  to 
think  of  Amelie  saying  those  words  and  found 
that  they  fitted  her,  although  he  could  not  re- 
member ever  hearing  her  make  a  speech  of  such 
combined  malice  and  depth.  He  began  to  feel 
at  a  loss,  as  though  he  had  been  called  to  pass 
judgment  on  an  Amelie  he  had  met  but  never 
known.  "Traveling  one  way  all  the  time  and 
moving  slow,"  hung  in  his  mind  like  a  fog  and 
exasperated  him,  because  the  phrase  was  too. 
blurred  for  complete  perception  and  yet  suggested 
a  hidden  light.  He  turned  on  Boies  as  a  vent  for 
his  discomfiture. 

"But  will  you  please  explain,"  he  said,  sharply, 
"just  why  you  dragged  me  into  this  thing?" 

He  was  taller  by  half  a  foot  than  Stephen  and, 
without  aspiring  to  any  godlike  regularity  of 
feature,  he  had  the  erect  carriage  and  forward 
bearing  that  one  associates  with  the  Apollo 
Belvedere.  The  set  of  his  neck  rising  from 
squared  shoulders,  and  the  poise  of  his  head,  well 
formed  and  with  its  lines  neatly  accentuated  by 
the  peculiar  clinging  quality  that  goes  with  crisp 
hair,  gave  him  an  air  of  buoyancy  that  in  itself 
seemed  to  deny  Amelie' s  veiled  deduction  of  a 
stagnant  nature.  Apparently  he  was  more  than 

26 


COBWEB 

a  match  for  the  shorter  man,  but  even  in  the  heat 
of  his  annoyance  there  was  a  saving  gleam  in 
his  gray  eyes  of  respect  for  the  well-remembered 
physical  sturdiness  -of  his  chum's  compact 
frame. 

"Sit  down,  you  bully,"  said  Stephen,  without 
taking  his  hands  from  his  pockets.  "You  asked 
me  to  tell  you  what  happened  and  that's  what 
I'm  doing.  Amelie  said  I  picked  on  you  because 
it  was  the  next  thing  in  the  copybook,  but,  off- 
hand, I  should  say  it  was  because  you  have  a 
way  of  absorbing  women  into  an  atmosphere  and 
turning  them  into  so  much  furniture  as  if  they 
were  so  many  chairs  with  good,  bad,  or  indif- 
ferent lines,  but  useful  to  sit  on.  And  they  like 
it,  by  Gad!  they  like  it!" 

"You're  mad,"  commented  Bourne,  "stark, 
staring  mad.  I  forgive  you." 

"If  thinking  on  one  subject  for  a  week  makes 
you  mad,"  said  Boies,  "why,  then  I'm  as  mad 
as  a  hatter.  Why  not  stand  up  to  the  truth 
just  for  a  change?  Do  you  think  I  blame  your 
general  attitude?  I've  been  counting  over  our 
particular  college  set  of  eight,  you  unmarried, 
five  of  the  seven  of  us  divorced  or  separated,  and 
now  this  inane,  unreasonable,  and  incompre- 
hensible mix-up  of  my  own;  and  as  for  the 
women  one  meets  just  knocking  around  as  you 
3  27 


COBWEB 

do,  if  you  find  a  happy  one  you  think  her  mind 
must  be  touched." 

"You're  drawing  a  long  bow,"  said  Bourne, 
impatiently.  "This  sort  of  talk  doesn't  get  us 
anywhere." 

"Of  course,"  admitted  Boies,  "there  are 
thousands  of  people  that  marry  and  stay  mar- 
ried, but  nine  times  out  of  ten  it's  a  union  by 
circumstances  and  not  of  personalities.  I'm  not 
talking  just  to  hear  myself  or  to  raise  a  row.  I'm 
in  dead  earnest.  I  don't  know  where  I  went 
wrong;  I  don't  even  know  that  I  did  go  wrong. 
Personally,  I  don't  think  that  our  world,  yours 
and  mine,  has  gone  wrong  in  general,  but  that  the 
women  of  this  country  have  caught  the  chestnut 
blight;  and  if  you  can  find  a  healthy  chestnut  tree 
anywhere  east  of  the  Mississippi  to-day,  I'll  eat  it." 

Bourne  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed,  but 
Stephen  did  not  join  him;  he  continued.  "You 
can  laugh,"  he  said,  "because  you're  not  a 
proprietor,  but  you  know  in  your  heart  that  all 
the  women  you've  met  lately  come  into  three 
classes  of  lumber — a  lot  of  dead  wood  built 
solidly  and  resignedly  into  bread-and-butter 
homes,  a  lonely  trunk  here  and  there  clinging 
desperately  to  a  few  tufts  of  God-green  leaves; 
and,  finally,  a  forest  of  sapless  trees  turned  to  a 
nasty  black.  It's  so,  isn't  it?" 

28 


COBWEB 

Bourne  had  seated  himself  again.  He  stared 
for  a  moment  at  the  glowing  ember  of  his  cigar, 
from  which  he  had  just  struck  the  ash.  There  is 
something  in  any  live  fire  that  has  always  awak- 
ened the  imaginative  and  fantastic  faculties  of 
man;  from  childhood  to  the  grave  we  find 
visions  of  hope  and  recollection  within  the 
boundless  limits  of  an  incandescent  coal.  And 
so  Bourne  found  his  vision  in  the  garnet  red  of 
his  cigar.  Through  that  luminous  oriel  he 
looked  upon  the  pale  woman  of  the  afternoon. 
She  was  startlingly  near  and  alive;  serenity  and 
an  inexpressible  freshness  in  entrancing  con- 
tradiction seemed  to  play  across  her  features. 
What  was  she?  he  asked  himself,  absently, 
dead  wood,  blight,  or  God-green  leaves? 

"Isn't  it?"  repeated  Stephen,  insistently. 

Bourne  came  to,  almost  with  a  gasp.  "I 
don't  know,  Boies,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "Per- 
haps. We've  all  been  fooled  a  lot,  but  I,  for 
one,  can't  help  clinging  to  a  sort  of  national  faith 
that's  necessary  to  my  individual  life  and  comfort. 
You  can't  talk  about  such  things  without  sound- 
ing silly,  but  it's  true  that  every  man  and 
woman  in  the  flesh,  no  matter  how  beloved,  has 
a  dream  rival.  I  know  very  little  about  en- 
during passion,  but,  speaking  from  the  outside, 
it  seems  to  me  that  all  great  love  affairs  must 

29 


COBWEB 

hang  on  an  unusual  capacity  for  illusion,  a 
genuine  faculty  for  superimposing  the  ideal  on  the 
real." 

"You  make  me  tired  with  your  big  words  for  a 
worn-out  idea,"  said  Stephen.  "What  you  are 
trying  to  say  is  that  love  is  blind.  We  all  recog- 
nize that  as  a  physiological  fact;  but  when  you 
pile  on  a  scheme  for  making  it  stay  blind,  I 
simply  don't  follow  you." 

"I  didn't  think  you  would,"  said  Bourne, 
mildly.  "I'm  not  sure  that  I  followed  myself. 
What  happened  after  you  took  my  name  in  vain 
and  insulted  Amelie  with  that  impertinent 
accusation?" 

"The  coolest  one-sided  conversation  you  ever 
heard,"  replied  Boies.  "I  asked  her  where  she 
was  going  and  she  said  thank  God  she  didn't 
know,  but  she  did  know  she  had  to  take  the 
beastly  train  to  get  there.  Then  I  asked  her  how 
she  thought  she  was  going  to  live,  and  all  she 
said  was,  'How  does  anybody  live?'  She  didn't 
seem  any  more  worried  or  responsible  than  a 
sparrow  on  a  bright  morning.  Then  I  came  back 
to  the  children  and  asked  her  what  I  was  going 
to  do  about  them,  and  she  said:  'There  you  go 
again.  You're  like  a  flat  wheel  with  the  bump 
every  time  you  come  around  to  the  children. 
Just  let  them  grow  and  perhaps  you'll  learn 

30 


COBWEB 

something.'  I  asked  her  what  she  meant  by 
that,  and  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  went 
upstairs  to  pack  a  bag." 

"Was  there  any  more  argument  after  that?" 
asked  Bourne. 

"Argument!"  exploded  Boies.  "Do  you  call 
that  an  argument?  There's  a  bit  of  old-fashioned 
stone  wall  left  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  and 
if  you  want  to  show  me  how  to  argue  with  it 
I'll  go  along." 

"Well,  what  did  happen?"  persisted  Bourne. 

"Nothing,"  said  Stephen.  "I  drove  her  to 
the  train  myself,  and  when  we  got  to  the  station 
she  said,  '  Don't  get  out,'  took  her  bag,  and 
sidled  off  toward  the  platform,  while  she  held 
me  off  with  a  look  over  one  shoulder,  the  oddest 
look  you  ever  saw.  It  was  a  sort  of  pot-pourri 
of  nonchalance,  pity,  wonder,  amusement,  toler- 
ance, and  apathy  against  a  background  of  hope 
without  expectation.  Does  that  mean  anything 
to  you?" 

"It  does,"  said  Bourne,  promptly.  "That's 
the  look  any  woman  gives  any  man  when  she 
has  decided  not  to  bother  with  fooling  him  any 
longer." 

Stephen  gazed  in  surprise  at  the  unexpected 
answer,  passed  it  through  a  rapid  mental  diges- 
tion, and  then  bowed  with  ironical  self-abase- 

31 


COBWEB 

ment.    "I  take  off  my  hat,"  he  said.    "You 
ought  to  know." 

"Nothing  personal,"  remarked  Bourne,  calmly. 
"We  all  ought  to  know,  but  we  never  do  at  the 
tune.  I'll  have  to  think  this  thing  out,  Boies," 
he  continued,  "and  talk  it  over  with  J.  E.  It 
would  do  you  good  to  do  that  same  thing. 
There  is  something  about  my  old  man  that 
makes  me  back  him  against  any  tangle  of  life 
as  you  and  I  know  it.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of 
him  any  more  than  you  are  of  me.  He  will  take 
an  intimacy  and  hold  it  in  the  hollow  of  his 
clean  hand  as  tenderly  as  a  kiddie  cradles  a  doll." 

Again  Stephen  stared  in  amazement  at  an 
image  invoked  by  his  friend's  words.  Up  to 
that  moment  his  conception  of  John  Elman 
Bourne  had  been  one  of  a  Titan  showing  dimly 
through  an  obscuring  mist  of  industrial  upheaval, 
of  an  unhallowed  god  riding  and  guiding  the 
storm  to  his  own  specific  ends.  Equally  with  a 
limited  public  he  knew  him  vaguely  as  a  genius 
of  reconstruction  on  a  colossal  scale;  but  it  had 
never  been  brought  home  to  him  that  the  qualities 
which  make  for  regeneration  are  the  same  whether 
they  be  applied  to  the  clogged  arteries  of  a  vast 
enterprise  or  to  the  little  exigencies  of  an  in- 
dividual life. 

"I  could  never  do  it,"  he  said,  doubtfully. 
32 


COBWEB 

"Do  what?"  asked  Bourne. 

"Talk  to  your  dad  like— Eke  this." 

Bourne  smiled  at  him  encouragingly.  "You 
don't  know  J.  E.,"  he  said.  "You  have  never 
seen  him  except  at  a  club  or  two  where  you  run 
into  him  by  accident  and  say,  'How  do  you  do, 
sir?  Everything  all  right  with  you,  sir?'  and 
beat  it  for  the  card  room,  for  fear  he'll  blast  you 
with  some  edict  of  tremendous  meaning." 

Stephen  smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  "Well," 
he  admitted,  "doesn't  that  show  you?" 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  replied  Bourne;  he  paused 
for  a  moment  and  then  continued:  "We  open 
the  house  on  Monday.  Give  me  a  day  or  two  to 
prepare  him — for  your  sake,  mind  you,  not  for 
his — and  then  you  blow  in  with  a  bag  and  stay 
a  week  or  a  month  while  you  look  around.  If 
I  were  you  I'd  straighten  things  out  a  bit  here 
because  probably  the  first  thing  he'll  tell  you  to 
do  is  to  sell  this  place,  get  rid  of  it  for  good  and 
all." 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  asked  Stephen, 
curiously. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bourne,  promptly.  "It's 
just  an  intuition,  a  hunch."  He  tossed  his  dead 
cigar  into  the  fireplace,  sighed,  stretched,  se- 
lected another,  and  lit  it.  "Boies,"  he  con- 
tinued, after  a  long  pause,  "now  that  all  that  is 

33 


COBWEB 

settled,  what  would  you  do  if  you  were  alone  in 
an  elevator  with  a  quite  adorable  girl  and  for  no 
apparent  reason  in  the  world  a  single  round  tear 
should  run  down  her  cheek  with  a  frightened  look 
of  its  own  and  hurl  itself  into  space?  " 

Stephen  wasted  a  withering  look  on  his  un- 
seeing companion,  grunted  twice,  and  presently 
asked,  in  an  incisive  voice  of  suppressed  emotions, 
"The  tear  didn't  stay  in  space,  did  it?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  replied  Bourne,  absently. 

"Well,  in  that  case,"  continued  Stephen, 
curtly,  "I  would  have  got  down  on  my  knees  and 
lapped  it  off  the  floor  as  a  pick-me-up." 

"I  suppose  you  would,"  murmured  Bourne; 
which  saying  proves  that  he  was  not  quite  so 
absent-minded  as  he  appeared. 


Chapter  Three 

NOTHING  has  been  said  to  indicate  that  the 
girl  of  the  elevator  was  an  adventuress,  but  such 
was  the  case.  If  one  be  permitted  to  divorce  that 
term  from  the  monopoly  of  an  opprobrious  sig- 
nificance and  read  into  its  meaning  those  at- 
tributes of  the  high  heart  which  alone  can 
launch  the  ship  of  individual  fortune  by  a 
deliberate  effort  of  the  will  upon  uncharted  seas, 
she  might  even  be  classified  as  a  superadven- 
turess.  She  had  appeared  unheralded  at  the 
hotel  during  a  period  when  guests  are  few  and 
rooms  a  drug  on  the  market;  which  may  account 
in  part,  but  only  in  part,  for  the  punctilious 
welcome  which  was  extended  to  her  despite 
lack  of  escort  or  formal  introduction.  In  no 
small  measure  did  the  key  of  her  reception  take 
its  note  from  her  quaint  mode  of  requesting 
accommodation. 

"I  would  like  a  room  with  a  window  upon  the 
Avenue,"  she  had  said,  with  a  sweet  gravity, 
first  to  the  doorman,  resplendent  in  gold  and 
gray,  then  to  the  buttons  who  had  seized  her 
bag,  and,  finally,  to  the  amused  room  clerk, 
whose  sophisticated  smirk  faded  in  exact  ratio 
to  the  growing  wonder  and  admiration  in  his 

35 


COBWEB 

eyes  as  they  comprehended  a  loveliness  so  in- 
dubitably fresh  that  in  a  circumambient  of 
expensive  cosmetics  it  seemed  positively  exotic. 

"A  room  and  bath,  with  window  on  the 
Avenue,"  he  murmured,  promptly,  as  he  offered 
her  the  register  and  a  pen;  nor  could  the 
patronymic,  palpably  filched  from  the  social 
roster,  which  she  indited  in  an  old-fashioned, 
Spencerian  hand,  shal£e  his  sudden  faith  in  her 
as  an  eminently  proper  tenant  for  the  hostelry 
within  whose  portal  he  played  the  role  of 
Cerberus. 

From  the  moment  of  her  admittance  the  girl 
became  a  mystery  amid  those  undercurrents 
which  swirl  and  flow  through  the  administrative 
channels  of  any  great  hotel,  but  which  only  the 
dismay  of  a  catastrophe,  such  as  a  suicide  or  a 
suddenly  exploded  scandal,  can  bring  to  the 
surface  to  display  their  troubled  waters  to  the 
public  view.  There  was  question  as  to  who  she 
was,  whence  and  why  she  came,  but  neither  on 
the  first  nor  any  succeeding  day  did  ever  occasion 
arise  for  a  single  besmirching  whisper.  Within 
a  week  the  entire  staff  from  bellboy  to  head 
waiter,  as  well  as  the  cavernous  building  itself, 
seemed  to  have  assumed  toward  her  an  air  of 
mothering  proprietorship  tinged  with  a  tolerant 
but  avid  curiosity. 

36 


COBWEB 

Womankind  in  general  may  well  demand  the 
recipe  for  such  a  unique  consummation,  and  it  is 
easily  given.  Take  twenty- three  years  of  flesh 
and  bone,  model  it  on  the  clean  lines  of  an 
adolescent  youth,  give  it  the  first  faint  fullnesses 
which  mark  the  genuine  transition  of  sex,  endow 
its  skin  with  the  transparent  texture  of  pallor 
over  a  glowing  lantern  of  health,  grant  it  brown 
eyes  with  floating  freckles  of  gold,  dark  lashes, 
a  serene  brow,  a  crown  of  tawny  hair,  lips  of  the 
color  and  smoothness  of  coral — and  then  let 
those  lips  bud  slowly  to  a  smile,  not  as  dispensing 
alms  or  giving  a  bribe,  but  as  a  mountain  spring 
creeps  shyly  to  the  light  of  day  from  some  deep 
and  hidden  source.  For  such  alchemy  and  for 
such  alchemy  alone  will  the  adamantine  hearts 
of  the  attendants  of  the  metropolis  grow  soft 
with  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  and  its  bricks 
and  mortar  assume  the  attributes  of  a  hen 
mothering  its  chicks. 

But  for  all  her  mystery,  the  girl  was  no  master- 
piece in  ivory  inviting  the  immortal  invocation  to 
Galatea  to 

"Change,  golden  tresses  of  her  hair, 

To  gold  that  turns  to  gray; 
Change,  silent  lips,  forever  fair, 
To  lips  that  have  their  day!" 


37 


COBWEB 

To  the  casual  observer  she  might  indeed  ap- 
pear peculiarly  immobile,  as  though  restrained 
by  shyness  or  a  statuesque  apathy,  but  before 
friendly  eyes  or  in  the  face  of  some  little  act  of 
kindness  from  any  who  served  her  she  would 
become  imbued  with  a  tremulous  vitality  which 
can  be  described  by  no  more  definite  phrase  than 
the  glowing  smile  of  the  spirit  within  her. 

To  no  one  was  she  more  intimately  human, 
more  completely  revealed  in  temperament,  than 
to  Janet,  the  floor  maid,  who  came,  as  was  her 
invariable  custom,  to  scoff,  and  remained  ul- 
timately to  adore,  held  in  a  thralldom  as  inex- 
plicable in  detail  as  it  was  foreign  in  general  to 
her  cynical  habit,  acquired  during  years  of 
varied  service. 

Janet  was  not  a  character;  she  was  one  of 
unnoticeable  thousands  who  tend  to  business 
automatically  for  eight  hours  a  day  and  then  don 
their  street  wear,  seize  upon  umbrellas  of  excel- 
lent quality,  and  fare  forth  unmarked  by  the 
slightest  tag  of  occupation  (unless  it  be  those 
same  umbrellas)  to  take  a  dignified  part  in  the 
amusements,  home  comforts,  and  extraordinarily 
impersonal  activities  of  the  most  democratic 
community  on  earth.  It  can  be  imagined  that 
she  was  not  easily  impressed  by  slight  variations 
in  the  monotonous  types  which  ebb  and  flow 

38 


COBWEB 

according  to  season  through  the  hospitality  on  a 
cash  basis  of  a  great  hotel,  and  as  a  consequence 
her  almost  immediate  conquest  was  all  the  more 
remarkable.  It  took  place  in  the  following 
manner: 

She  had  entered  in  response  to  a  summons, 
and  with  one  trained  glance  had  taken  in  the 
shabby  trunk  of  ancient  and  inconvenient  de- 
sign, a  bag  of  equal  age  and  use,  a  scanty  ward- 
robe already  hung  in  the  open  closet,  and, 
finally,  the  girl  standing  in  modest  negligee 
which  revealed  only  by  glimpses  the  snowy 
whiteness  and  maidenly  simplicity  of  those  more 
intimate  articles  of  female  attire  which  to  the 
eyes  of  the  initiated  afford  the  surest  index  to  a 
woman's  present  and  past,  as  well  as  plausible 
grounds  of  augury  as  to  her  probable  future. 
From  the  girl's  hands  dangled  a  pair  of  silk 
stockings. 

"Did  you  call  for  the  maid,  miss?"  asked 
Janet,  curtly,  according  to  formula. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  replied  the  girl,  with  a  delibera- 
tion and  clarity  of  enunciation  which  were  in 
themselves  notable.  "I  have  just  come  to 
town,"  she  continued,  "and  have  had  no  chance 
to  buy  clothes.  Is  there  any  way  in  which  I 
could  have  these  stockings  washed  quickly — 
perhaps  by  to-morrow?" 

39 


COBWEB 

Because  she  imagined  she  sensed  hostility  in 
the  maid's  coldly  businesslike  attitude,  or  from 
whatever  other  cause,  the  girl  looked  at  Janet 
with  a  pleading  intensity  in  a  measure  quite  dis- 
proportionate to  her  trifling  request,  as  though, 
instinctively,  she  were  making  an  immediate 
appeal  for  all  time.  Her  lips  curved  tremu- 
lously in  an  experimental  smile  and  across  and 
down  the  supreme  unconsciousness  of  her  face 
a  single  tear  took  its  startled  flight  like  a  star 
missing  its  hold  and  falling  to  nowhere  from  its 
rightful  place  in  the  bowl  of  heaven. 

Janet's  eyes,  mouth,  and  heart  flew  open.  She 
looked  down  at  the  tiny  splash  on  the  carpet, 
up  at  the  lovely  face,  and  the  walls  of  her  pro- 
fessional fortress  fell  beyond  rebuilding.  "Give 
me  those  stockings,  my  dear,"  she  said,  caress- 
ingly, much  to  her  own  amazement.  "I'll  wash 
them, for  you  myself  in  just  one  half  of  a  jiffy." 

That  incident  marked  the  beginning  of  one  of 
those  blind,  one-sided  alliances  between  women 
which  usually  take  the  form  of  an  intense  but 
ephemeral  infatuation  in  the  younger  for  the 
elder,  but  which,  in  those  rare  cases  where  the 
ages  are  reversed,  attain  eventually  to  the 
dignity  and  prerogatives  of  a  permanent  alle- 
giance. With  the  rapidity  that  attends  any 
companionship  in  intimate  moments,  Janet 

40 


COBWEB 

learned  all  there  was  to  know  in  regard  to  the 
characteristics  of  the  fledgling  whom  she  took 
under  her  wing,  but  not  one  whisper  of  the 
nature,  condition,  or  initial  habitat  from  which 
the  tender  object  of  her  solicitude  had  so  in- 
explicably sprung  to  a  ponderous  perch  in  the 
great  city. 

The  girl's  present  days  and  nights  held  no  secret 
from  the  maid,  but  still  the  stranger  remained 
the  stranger  behind  a  rampart  of  intuitive  breed- 
ing which  opened  readily  to  the  trivialities  of 
current  curiosity,  but  which  presented  an  im- 
penetrable front  of  musing  silence  at  the  first 
suspicion  of  an  attempt  to  deal  freely  in  per- 
sonalities. Without  apparent  intention,  the 
strange  girl's  attitude  was  one  of  possessing  no 
hidden  keys  to  this  or  that  compartment  of 
mystery;  she  was  in  herself  and  without  division 
the  locked  door. 

Janet  not  only  accepted  the  limitation,  but 
bowed  low  to  it.  Wholly  unconscious  of  labor- 
ing in  a  restricted  field,  she  reverted  to  an  epoch 
when  servants  were  servants  and  had  a  care  to 
take  no  liberties.  Even  that  unwritten  rule  left 
her  free  of  so  many  intimate  contacts  that  she 
became  increasingly  unaware  of  any  exclusion 
and  within  the  week  would  have  sworn  stoutly 
and  with  a  wide  stare  that  every  nook  and  cranny 

41 


COBWEB 

of  her  darling's  living  and  prenatal  days  had  been 
fully  revealed,  only — she  couldn't  tell.  And 
she  believed  it;  she  believed  it  doggedly. 

Such  whole-hearted  self-deception  would  seem 
incredible  except  for  the  flood  of  incidents  which 
supported  it.  This  sequence  of  items  began 
with  the  arrival  of  the  first  lot  of  the  girl's  pur- 
chases. She  allowed  the  boxes  to  accumulate 
unopened  until  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  then 
fingered  them  pensively  one  by  one.  Some- 
thing was  troubling  her;  while  her  placid  brows 
were  not  drawn  into  a  frown,  there  was  neverthe- 
less a  shadow  in  her  eyes  such  as  comes  to  warm 
natures  in  the  face  of  such  elemental  emotions  as 
loneliness,  curiosity,  or  the  desire  that  throbs 
in  any  heart  capable  of  feeling  beauty  to  share 
that  sensation  with  another.  After  long  thought 
and  with  a  wistful  quirk  of  the  lips  at  the  in- 
adequacy of  the  solace,  she  sent  for  the  maid. 

"Janet,"  she  asked,  "are  you  very  busy?" 

"No,  miss,"  lied  Janet,  promptly.  "I  was 
just  going  off." 

"So  early!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  with  a  glance 
at  her  quaint  Swiss  table  clock.  "What  time  do 
you  get  away?" 

"Not  until  seven- thirty  ordinarily,  miss.  But 
never  mind  that.  Whatever  it  is  you  wish  I've 
got  time  to  do  it." 

42 


COBWEB 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  girl,  in  the  unhurried 
voice  which  by  its  exceptional  deliberation 
always  surprised  the  hearer,  "you  may  call  me 
Miss  Alloway.  I'm  used  to  it." 

"Yes,  Miss  Alloway,"  said  Janet;  and  then  in 
answer  to  a  very  human  and  youthful  look  of 
appeal  she  added,  "What  is  it  you  want,  dear?" 

"I  wish  you  to  open  these  packages  with  me," 
replied  the  girl. 

The  wardrobe  of  woman  has  never  been  given 
its  rightful  place  in  the  analytical  depiction  of 
character.  Literature  is  clogged  with  considera- 
tion of  the  effects  of  some  special  gown,  some 
individual  jewel  or  mystic  color;  but  the  con- 
junctivity  of  the  clothes  and  adornments  pos- 
sessed by  any  given  woman  as  a  pointer  to  her- 
self, her  actions,  and  her  capabilities  has  never 
been  appreciated.  For  instance,  a  girl  will  turn 
up  with  a  single  suitcase  and  an  extra  hat  in  a 
paper  bag  and  will  appear  correctly  dressed  and 
on  time  to  the  minute  for  garden  party,  dinner, 
or  a  ball.  Let  the  same  girl  arrive  with  fourteen 
trunks  and  two  hat  boxes  and  she  will  be  late 
for  every  engagement,  no  matter  how  long  her 
stay.  The  inference  is  obvious;  to  a  woman  any 
occasion  for  choice  is  the  thief  of  time. 

That  frivolous  deduction  is  cast  off  at  random 
as  a  single  example  of  the  many  things  mere  man 
4  43 


COBWEB 

might  know  in  advance  if  first  he  could  acquaint 
himself  with  the  exact  extent  of  his  lady's  equip- 
ment down  to  and  including  the  possession  or 
nonpossession  of  a  rouge  pot;  but  there  are  con- 
siderations that  strike  much  deeper  than  any 
such  trifling  guide  to  conduct  and  establish 
definitely  the  wardrobe  as  an  integral  part  of  the 
flesh,  bone,  and  soul  of  the  woman  to  whom  it 
belongs. 

In  sizing  up  Miss  Alloway  in  the  light  of  the 
contents  of  the  various  parcels  which  she  was 
opening,  not  hastily,  but  with  the  long  pauses  of 
the  ritual  of  feminine  adoration  for  any  new 
article  of  wear,  Janet  was  by  no  means  conscious 
of  studying  the  principles  at  the  basis  of  psy- 
chological phenomena.  The  effect  produced  upon 
her  was  cumulative,  but  purely  objective;  she 
only  knew  that  as  far  as  ladyship  was  con- 
cerned, Miss  Alloway  was  forever  established  hi 
her  mind  as  the  real  thing. 

Her  judgment  was  as  intuitive  and  fully  as 
accurate  as  that  of  him  who,  standing  upon  a 
corner  and  witnessing  the  passage  of  a  lovely 
vision  garbed  in  the  subdued  highlights  of 
superlative  taste,  exclaims,  gravely,  "There 
goes  money,"  but  who,  if  a  single  feather  were 
added  to  those  selfsame  clothes,  or  one  unsure 
change  of  shade  imposed,  would  cry,  just  as 

44 


COBWEB 

promptly,  but  with  a  cynical  smile,  "There  goes 
somebody's  money."  Thus  showing  by  the  ad- 
dition of  just  one  word  that  to  an  observing 
temperament  a  mere  maladroit  nuance  can 
signify  all  of  a  social  chasm. 

Had  Janet  had  the  mentality  to  think  this 
matter  out  for  herself  she  would  not  have  been 
a  lady's  maid,  but  a  practitioner  of  psychoanaly- 
sis; which  lessens  by  not  one  whit  the  mount- 
ing ecstasy  with  which  she  disclosed  one  by  one 
Miss  Alloway's  purchases. 

Their  sum  total  was  surprisingly  small,  taking 
into  consideration  the  size  and  the  number  of 
the  boxes,  but  even  the  lay  mind  of  man  would 
have  found  itself  peculiarly  content  with  the 
selection  made  by  the  girl,  because  it  was  a 
selection.  For  instance,  there  were  only  nine 
pairs  of  stockings,  but  they  came  from  three 
shops,  and  as  Janet  drew  the  silken  length  of 
each  slowly  across  her  bare  wrist  her  eyes  in- 
voluntarily sought  out  Miss  Alloway  and  pro- 
ceeded to  dress  her  in  those  stockings  at  once. 
So  with  the  four  hats  and  the  three  frocks,  the 
underwear  and  the  nighties;  altogether  they 
made  an  insignificant  filmy  heap,  but  there  was 
not  a  ribbon  nor  a  button  nor  a  fold  which  did 
not  seem  already  to  have  taken  on  an  air  of 
possessor  and  possessed. 

45 


COBWEB 

The  girl  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  with  her 
feet  set  primly  side  by  side  and  with  her  arms 
outstretched  as  rigid  props  to  her  body.  Her 
shoulders  were  thrown  high  by  the  posture  and 
her  head  hung  forward;  but  youth  in  any  pose 
is  lovely  and  Janet  turned  from  consideration 
of  the  sweetest  of  the  dresses  to  stare  in  whole- 
hearted envy  and  admiration. 

"Will  you  try  this  one  on  now?"  she  asked, 
almost  at  random. 

The  girl's  eyes  did  not  seem  wholly  absorbed 
with  the  clothes;  they  were  watching  Janet, 
following  her  spasmodic  movements  and  study- 
ing the  rapid  changes  in  her  mobile  face. 

"Janet,"  she  said,  answering  one  question 
with  another,  "do  you  think  we  might  go  to  the 
play?  Are  you  free?" 

"Go  to  the  play,  miss?"  repeated  Janet. 
"Do  you  mean  you  want  to  see  a  show?" 

The  girl  nodded  and  added,  "To-night;  but 
I  can't  go  without  you." 

"Of  course  not,"  agreed  Janet,  promptly,  to 
that  assertion,  and  after  a  moment's  considera- 
tion she  decided  that  she  could  free  herself  for 
the  evening. 

Immediately  the  girl  became  all  animation. 
"Dress  me,"  she  said,  springing  to  her  feet. 
"You  choose,  because  we  haven't  a  minute  to 

46 


COBWEB 

lose.  Where  shall  I  dine?  Perhaps  I  had  bet- 
ter have  just  a  sandwich  here  and  it  would  be 
well  to  order  a  taxi  now;  sometimes  they  are 
hard  to  get." 

"It's  more  important  to  get  tickets,  miss,  than 
anything  else,"  mumbled  Janet  through  a  mouth- 
ful of  wholly  unnecessary  pins. 

"I  must  tell  you  the  truth,"  continued  the 
girl.  "I  must  always  tell  you  the  truth,  mustn't 
I,  Janet?  Well,  I  have  the  tickets;  two  of  them. 
I  have  had  them  all  afternoon." 

There  are  women  who  get  a  distinct  sensation 
from  preparing  others  for  show,  conquest,  or 
sacrifice.  Janet  had  this  hidden  sense  strongly 
developed  and  was  accustomed  to  derive  a  tan- 
gible pleasure  from  its  exercise,  but,  even  so, 
she  was  awed  by  the  strength  of  the  feeling 
which  came  over  her  as  she  gave  the  final  touch 
to  Miss  Alloway's  toilette.  The  girl  seemed  too 
perfect,  too  much  at  one  with  herself  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  whole  world,  too  completely  con- 
tained within  a  pearly  shell  of  flesh,  too  in- 
trinsically exclusive  to  dare  the  casual  contacts 
of  the  streets.  Janet  was  almost  afraid  of  the 
responsibility  of  piloting  her,  but,  as  the  event 
proved,  she  need  not  have  worried.  The  girl 
was  human,  and  whatever  is  human  is  endowed 
with  a  power  of  reaction  which,  if  it  will,  can 

47 


COBWEB 

defeat  even  the  natural  acquisitiveness  of  the 
public  in  the  face  of  a  jewel  at  large  and  ap- 
parently unattached. 

They  arrived  at  the  theater  well  before  the  rise 
of  the  curtain,  and  Janet,  who  was  a  faithful 
patron  of  the  galleries,  promptly  exhausted  the 
novelty  of  being  in  the  stalls  and  soon  lost  in- 
terest in  the  new  handling  of  an  ancient  theme. 
Ordinarily  any  plot,  however  threadbare,  would 
have  held  her  to  its  foregone  conclusion,  but  on 
this  night,  the  first  of  many  on  which  she  was 
to  act  as  escort  to  her  adopted  charge,  she  was 
absorbed  in  watching  surreptitiously  the  girl  at 
her  side. 

Had  Miss  Alloway  been  veritably  a  child,  she 
would  soon  have  attracted  the  attention  of  more 
neighbors  than  her  maid.  As  it  was,  she  made 
no  overt  demonstrations  of  the  commotion 
within  her,  but  the  control  which  she  enforced 
on  her  actions  and  deportment  could  not  dom- 
inate her  features  nor  the  tumult  of  her  bosom 
nor  the  eager  light  that  shone  in  her  eyes.  Never 
before  had  Janet  experienced  just  such  a  sense 
of  proximity  to  an  almost  overwhelming  store  of 
unspent  life.  She  did  not  have  to  be  told  that 
she  was  witnessing  a  first  night  in  the  reversed 
sense,  and  that  for  some  incomprehensible  rea- 
son the  apparently  finished  person  of  Miss 

48 


COBWEB 

Alloway  had  never  before  been  subjected  to  the 
lure  of  the  footlights. 

On  this  occasion,  as  on  several  others,  her 
curiosity  got  the  better  of  her,  but  to  no  avail. 
She  remembered  a  certain  leading  question  with 
which  she  had  striven  unsuccessfully  to  persuade 
the  girl  to  square  the  name  of  Miss  Alloway  with 
the  ostentatious  patronymic  she  had  inscribed 
on  the  hotel  register,  but,  undaunted  by  that 
recollection,  as  they  pressed  out  toward  the  exit 
after  the  play  was  over  she  made  the  crowd  an 
excuse  to  hold  her  companion's  cool  but  trem- 
bling arm  and  to  whisper  in  her  ear,  "Did  you 
think  it  was  better  than  most  shows? " 

For  all  answer  she  got  a  murmur  as  from 
one  in  a  trance,  "It  was  wonderful — quite 
wonderful!" 

They  came  out  to  wet  pavements  and  a 
shower.  Janet  gasped  in  dismay  and  looked  in 
vain  for  the  carriage  starter  or  an  obliging 
urchin.  The  throng,  caught  unawares,  crowded 
the  space  under  the  great  glass  shelter,  and  had 
already  loaded  attendants  with  commissions 
beyond  their  capacity  of  prompt  fulfillment. 

"Wait  for  me  here,  dear,"  she  said,  placing  the 
girl  on  the  top  step  with  her  back  to  the  theater 
wall.  "And  watch  for  me,  will  you?  I'll  fetch 
a  cab." 

49 


COBWEB 

The  girl  nodded  absently  and  Janet  dashed 
off  with  a  nervous  backward  glance  over  her 
shoulder,  as  though  in  doubt  as  to  whether  her 
instructions  had  been  comprehended. 

Miss  Alloway  was  wearing  a  large  black  velvet 
hat  adorned  with  a  single  black  bow.  Her 
shoulders  were  cupped  in  a  little  box  garment 
also  of  black  velvet,  which  had  a  high  flaring 
collar  so  wide  that  it  fell  softly  backward. 
Just  below  the  shoulder  blades  this  bewitching 
article  of  apparel  merged  into  a  black-lace  coat, 
the  skirts  of  which  she  had  gathered  about  her. 
The  transparent  lace  fell  in  long  folds  from  her 
white,  ungloved  arms  and  only  half  veiled  the 
amber  reflection  of  a  straw-colored  informal 
frock.  She  wore  luminous  stockings  and  tan 
kid  slippers  with  plain  buckles  of  gold. 

People  glanced  at  her  standing  erect  and 
unconscious  above  the  level  of  the  crowd,  and 
because  she  was  unconscious  they  looked  again, 
and  finally  frankly  stared,  though  without  rude- 
ness. They  knew  instinctively  that  here  was  no 
manikin,  no  exhibit  of  fashion,  no  brazen  testi- 
monial of  some  lover's  largess,  but  a  vision,  an 
alliance,  a  partnership  in  beauty  between  a  gift 
of  God  and  the  art  of  man.  They  turned  from 
their  staring  with  faint,  pleasant  smiles  on  their 
lips,  as  though  each  would  carry  from  that  mud- 

50 


COBWEB 

stained  spot  the  haunting  recollection  of  a  ray  of 
sunshine  striking  softly  across  the  autumn  storm. 

There  was  one  exception  to  the  general  rule. 
A  youngish  man,  very  correctly  attired,  old 
enough  to  know  better  and  by  that  same  token  old 
enough  to  discount  many  defeats  for  a  single 
victory,  subjected  the  girl  to  a  scrutiny  too 
intent  and  at  the  same  time  too  impersonal  to 
give  rise  to  a  merely  passing  whimsical  smile  of 
appreciation.  He  was  no  rounder,  no  profes- 
sional exponent  of  approach  without  introduc- 
tion, but  long  experience  with  the  world  had 
superimposed  on  a  foundation  of  good  breeding 
a  cynical  disregard  for  conventions  whenever 
occasion  seemed  to  overbalance  the  penalties  of 
a  breach.  Indeed,  nothing  short  of  such  a 
training  could  have  enabled  him  to  sense  some 
element  of  the  unusual  beyond  mere  outward 
appearance  in  the  young  woman  who  was  the 
subject  of  his  minute  inspection. 

In  the  first  place,  it  astounded  him  that  she 
should  continue  to  be  serenely  unaware  of  his 
gaze,  and  yet  such  was  undoubtedly  the  case. 
He  passed  in  rapid  review  the  mediocre  play 
which  they  had  just  attended  and  could  find  in 
its  plot  and  general  impression  no  grounds  for 
her  abstraction;  but  her  withdrawal  from  the 
world  about  her  was  patently  genuine.  The 

51 


COBWEB 

pallor  of  her  cheeks  was  faintly  tinged  with  the 
unmistakable  flush  of  excitement,  her  lips  were 
parted  to  her  deep  breathing,  and  her  eyes  were 
wide,  translucent,  and  unseeing.  It  seemed 
abnormal  that  so  noticeable  an  apparition 
should  be  unaccompanied,  and  if  experience 
teaches  one  lesson  more  insistently  than  another 
it  is  that  the  abnormal  is  always  vulnerable. 

Having  come  to  some  such  conclusion,  he  re- 
entered  the  lobby  of  the  theater,  presently 
emerged  again,  and  paused  to  light  a  cigarette 
in  close  proximity  to  Miss  Alloway.  The  first 
puff  of  smoke  drifted  vaguely  in  her  direction, 
and  he  turned  swiftly  to  make  apology. 

"That  was  clumsy  of  me,"  he  said,  touching 
his  hat,  "and  I  beg  your  pardon."  Then  he 
added,  with  apparent  quick  perception:  "The 
starter  seems  to  have  his  hands  more  than  full. 
Can  I  be  of  any  service  to  you?  Get  your  call 
number  or  a  cab?" 

The  opening  seemed  flawless;  if  she  were  a 
wroman  of  his  own  world  she  would  smile  her 
thanks  and  dismiss  him  with  the  assurance  that 
she  was  attended;  if  she  were  a  maiden  in  dis- 
tress or  on  adventure  bent,  she  could  ask  for  no 
fairer  opportunity;  if  she  were  neither  one  nor 
the  other  she  could  still  scarcely  take  offense. 

The  girl  seemed  to  return  very  slowly  to 
52 


COBWEB 

consciousness.  Her  eyes  focused  with  a  calm 
deliberation  on  his  own  and  gave  him  gaze  for 
gaze.  There  was  certainly  no  abstraction  in 
her  look;  it  undressed  his  insincerity  as  casually 
and  as  cruelly  as  a  child  strips  the  petals  from  a 
flower.  Then  she  turned  from  him  as  one  might 
turn  from  a  withered  stalk  to  smile  on  Janet, 
who  was  waving  frantically  from  the  open  door 
of  a  honking  cab. 

"I  sincerely  beg  your  pardon,"  murmured  the 
man  as  she  stepped  from  his  side. 


Chapter  Four 

THE  Bournes  were  of  that  small,  unostentatious 
group  which  has  never  deserted  Murray  Hill. 
Father  and  son  lived  through  the  winter  and  well 
into  the  spring  of  each  year  in  a  spacious  house 
just  off  Madison  Avenue,  attended  by  servants 
who  had  been  with  them  for  a  generation  and 
who  shared  with  them  the  inheritance  of  an 
atmosphere.  This  legacy  of  an  established  air 
could  be  attributed  in  part  to  the  house  itself, 
for  as  man  and  wife  who  live  together  during 
many  years  of  mutual  understanding  often  take 
on  a  physical  resemblance  to  each  other,  so  a 
habitation  which  is  beloved  seals  with  an  un- 
mistakable impression  the  lives  of  its  tenants. 
But  no  little  part  of  the  influence  of  the  Bourne 
residence  on  its  inmates  could  be  traced  to  a 
more  tender  source;  the  house  and  all  who  lived 
in  it  seemed  to  remember  Mrs.  Bourne. 

To  Bourne  the  elder  any  move  such  as  many 
of  his  contemporaries  had  made  to  apartments 
far  more  convenient  in  appointments,  location, 
and  economy,  would  have  seemed  a  desertion  of 
his  dead  wife,  but  quite  apart  from  that  senti- 
ment, intensely  felt  though  never  analyzed  even 
to  himself,  there  was  another  reason  for  his 

54 


COBWEB 

constancy.  He  loved  his  library.  Its  two  wide 
casements  looked  out  on  a  plot  of  green  and  a 
single  elm  tree  which  was  as  unexpected  to  the 
stranger  as  it  was  familiar  to  him  who  had 
nursed  its  later  years  with  an  indomitable  de- 
termination to  pass  its  beauty  on  to  his  heir. 
Choice  spots  in  the  well-stocked  shelves  were 
crowded  with  faces  as  of  old  friends,  tried  and 
true,  lingering  year  after  year  within  easy  reach 
of  the  deepest  of  the  leathern  chairs.  New 
volumes  were  heaped  upon  the  oblong  length 
of  the  massive  center  table,  awaiting  the  leisurely 
sorting  which  should  assign  them  to  the  waste 
basket,  the  high  and  cold  reference  shelves,  or 
to  a  handy  place  of  honor  and  affection.  The 
cavernous  embrasure  of  the  fireplace  had  a 
dignity  of  its  own  which  on  the  hottest  day 
brooked  no  screening  nor  any  decoration  save  a 
charred  log  of  yuletide  proportions  and  a  heap  of 
ashes,  stolid  in  their  assurance  that  the  weather 
would  surely  change  again  in  the  monotonous 
march  of  the  seasons. 

Added  to  these  tangible  features  was  the  lure  of 
long  association.  To  John  Bourne  this  room 
with  its  musty  air  of  old  leather  freshening 
quickly  under  human  contact,  with  its  patches  of 
subdued  light  and  depths  of  kindly  shadow, 
had  come  to  be  the  emblem  of  that  inner  life 

55 


COBWEB 

without  which  no  human  existence  can  justify  a 
material  pilgrimage  through  a  too  imperfect 
world.  Here  more  than  anywhere  else  he  had 
known  his  wife,  his  son,  and  himself;  here  alone 
he  had  been  safe  from  the  corroding  influence  of 
financial  power  and  had  renewed  from  day  to  day 
his  grip  on  those  simplicities  which  do  not 
necessarily  imply  greatness,  but  which,  once  lost, 
condemn  even  the  great  to  meanness.  Here,  in 
an  age  when  Americans  of  the  cities  have  re- 
verted to  cliff  dwelling  and  cling  to  illusions  by 
their  eyelashes,  John  Bourne  lived  with  feet 
planted  in  spacious  reality  and  clung  tenaciously 
to  standards. 

It  was  to  this  room  that  Boies  Stephen 
descended  by  natural  gravitation  in  the  early 
morning  of  the  day  following  his  arrival  in 
response  to  his  chum's  invitation.  During  the 
two  weeks  which  had  intervened  Boies  had  had 
a  bad  time  of  it.  Without  making  a  direct 
effort  and  through  a  chance  talk  with  an  ac- 
quaintance he  had  located  Amelie,  and  the 
things  he  subsequently  heard,  far  from  doing 
anything  toward  allaying  his  wonder  at  his  wife's 
actions,  had  merely  served  to  increase  his  be- 
wilderment and  alarm.  As  a  result  his  first 
night  in  a  strange  bed  at  Murray  Hill  had  been 
exceedingly  restless,  and  at  the  first  sign  of  day 

56 


COBWEB 

he  had  taken  a  cold  plunge,  put  on  a  bathrobe, 
and  begun  a  silent  prowl  through  the  premises. 
He  entered  the  library  and,  with  a  shock  that 
carried  him  back  to  schooldays,  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  the  master  of  the  house. 

Bourne  the  elder,  wrapped  in  his  pajamas  and 
two  bathrobes,  was  sitting  in  a  sheltered  nook 
beside  one  of  the  big  windows,  where  the  light 
fell  with  a  slant  across  his  book  and  incidentally 
across  himself.  His  feet  and  legs  were  out- 
stretched and  placed  comfortably  on  a  leather 
upholstered  stool  of  the  exact  height  of  his  chair 
seat.  At  his  elbow  was  a  glass  and  a  pitcher  of 
clear,  cold  water,  already  more  than  half  emptied. 

He  glanced  up  from  his  reading  and,  noting  the 
panic-stricken  expression  on  his  guest's  face, 
called  out,  promptly:  "Come  right  in,  Boies. 
Pull  up  a  chair." 

Stephen  drew  his  bathrobe  tightly  about  him 
and  advanced  into  the  room.  "I'm  sorry  to 
have  disturbed  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "Did  you 
have  a  restless  night,  too?" 

"Hardly,"  replied  Mr.  Bourne.  "I  can't  re- 
member having  a  restless  night."  A  quizzical 
look  came  into  his  eyes  and  he  added:  "I'll 
amend  that  because  even  a  half  lie  looks  bad  in 
this  early  morning  light.  I'll  put  it  this  way — 
I  won't  remember  a  restless  night,  ever." 

57 


COBWEB 

He  smiled,  and  Stephen  promptly  smiled  back. 
As  he  expressed  it  to  Ritt  Bourne  an  hour  or  two 
later,  "Your  dad,  Ritt,  has  one  of  those  'answer 
paid'  smiles." 

"Pull  up  a  chair,"  repeated  Mr.  Bourne. 
"Stretch  your  legs;  there's  plenty  of  room." 

Stephen  did  as  he  was  bidden.  He  dragged  a 
big  chair  into  position  half  facing  his  host,  and 
rested  his  crossed  ankles  on  the  benchlike  foot- 
stool. Then  he  began  frankly  to  study  John 
Bourne  with  a  nonchalance  which  ten  minutes 
earlier  would  have  seemed  to  him  beyond  the 
possibility  of  years  of  acquaintance. 

He  saw  a  large,  heavy  man  with  sparse  sandy 
hair,  an  oddly  egg-shaped  head,  and  a  face  which 
would  have  been  without  distinction  had  it  not 
been  for  two  features.  The  eyes  were  small, 
but  so  brilliant  and  kindly  that  they  absorbed 
the  vision  of  others  and  seemed  to  open  up  to 
imagination  a  white  road  reaching  toward  a  far 
horizon.  As  he  looked  into  them  Stephen  found 
himself  thinking  in  complete  detachment,  "Fol- 
low the  white  line  and  you  can't  go  wrong." 

The  other  notable  feature  was  the  large  and 
somewhat  pendulous  nose.  The  more  one  stud- 
ied it  the  more  it  appeared  to  take  on  the  pro- 
portions of  a  flying  buttress  stolen  from  some 
cathedral  wall.  It  was  the  keystone  of  the 

58 


COBWEB 

John  Bourne  character,  fortune,  and  career. 
The  slight  curves  of  its  long  lines  were  the  curves 
of  the  stem  of  a  mighty  ocean  liner,  carrying  an 
implication  of  power  and  of  a  forging  ahead 
through  heavy  seas.  It  was  too  rounded,  how- 
ever, to  deny  a  sense  of  humor,  but  suggested 
only  mighty  convulsions,  such  as  Rabelaisian 
gusts  of  laughter  or  the  trumpetings  of  elephants 
at  play.  Its  pendulous  point  was  not  quite  in 
line  with  the  balance  of  the  edifice  and  this 
peculiar  characteristic  was  said  by  John  Bourne's 
cronies  to  be  at  once  the  one  flaw  and  the  greatest 
strength  in  his  armor.  For  the  tip  of  his  nose 
was  restless;  there  were  occasions  when  it 
moved. 

"You  are  looking  at  my  nose,"  said  Mr. 
Bourne,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "Which  way 
is  it  twitching?  " 

"To  the  left,  sir,"  replied  Stephen,  with  a 
broad  grin. 

"That  means  a  joke  coming,"  continued  Mr. 
Bourne,  with  a  sigh.  "You  know  what  my 
friends  say:  if  it  stays  still,  I'm  bored;  if  it 
twitches  to  the  left,  I'm  going  to  say  something 
funny;  if  it  straightens  out,  as  it  very  rarely 
does,  I'm  about  to  step  on  a  worm  and  step  hard. 
I  don't  remember  ever  having  to  continue  an 
argument  after  my  nose  straightened  out.  Boies, 
5  59 


COBWEB 

I  took  up  poker  seriously  when  I  was  thirty- 
seven  and  gave  it  up  forever  when  I  was  thirty- 
eight.  Would  you  like  to  hear  about  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Stephen,  sitting  up  quickly 
and  drawing  his  feet  down. 

"Go  easy!"  admonished  Mr.  Bourne.  "There's 
nothing  very  exciting  coming.  It  was  this  way. 
The  men  that  I  made  my  first  big  money  out  of 
were  all  good  poker  players  and  I  hated  to  think 
there  was  any  ground  I  couldn't  meet  them  on 
and  break  even.  I  studied  poker  for  six  months 
the  way  some  folks  study  golf — made  a  sort  of 
religion  of  it.  I  followed  it  back  to  its  dim 
birth  in  the  penumbra  of  history  and  forward 
to  the  latest  touch  of  current  etiquette,  and  when 
I  really  knew  it  all  I  began  to  play.  During 
three  sittings  I  more  than  held  my  own,  and 
then  I  began  to  lose,  and  I  lost  and  kept  on  losing 
without  a  single  break  for  a  solid  year,  at  the 
end  of  which  I  gave  a  big  dinner  and  formally 
quit  the  game,  acknowledging  myself  completely 
beaten. 

"I  can't  remember  any  other  incident  which 
has  given  me  quite  such  a  jolt,  and  on  that 
night  I  was  the  one  spot  of  impenetrable  gloom 
in  a  hilarious  party.  The  next  Saturday  morn- 
ing a  special  messenger  brought  me  a  shoe  box, 
and  in  it  I  found  the  calling  cards  of  my  six 

60 


COBWEB 

friends,  a  large,  hard,  rubber  football  nose 
guard,  and  a  much-worn  sheet  of  paper  with  a 
diagram  on  it  headed  in  capital  letters,  'JOHN 
BOURNE  INDICATOR/  The  diagram  was  a 
correct  line  drawing  of  my  nose  at  rest,  and  the 
same  nose  in  dotted  projection  lines  such  as  we 
use  in  draughting  the  successive  positions  of  a 
pendulum  in  motion.  These  dotted  lines  were 
labeled,  'two  pairs;  full  house;  four  of  a  kind,' 
and  so  forth.  I  didn't  go  back,  Boies.  I 
couldn't  see  myself  sitting  in  shirt  sleeves  and  a 
heavy  nose  guard  through  a  hot  night." 

The  roar  of  laughter  which  followed  the  con- 
clusion of  this  story,  and  in  which  Mr.  Bourne 
took  the  major  part,  reverberated  through  the 
house  and  brought  Ritt  down  on  the  run  from 
three  flights  above.  He  rushed  into  the  library. 

"Look  here,  you  two,  how  did  you  get  together 
at  this  unearthly  hour?  I  have  always  hated  a 
morning  laugh,  but  when  I'm  left  out  of  it  I 
hate  it  ten  times  worse.  Let  me  in." 

John  Bourne  glanced  at  the  clock  on  the 
mantel,  took  down  his  feet,  and  hoisted  himself 
out  of  the  deep  chair  which  had  almost  en- 
veloped him.  He  stretched,  yawned,  and  moved 
with  a  sigh  toward  the  door. 

"If  you  want  to  laugh  with  us,"  he  replied, 
"you'll  have  to  turn  up  here  for  dinner  at  seven 

61 


COBWEB 

o'clock  to-night.  Good  morning  to  both  of 
you." 

"Boies,"  said  Ritt,  "what  were  you  doing  in 
the  library  at  this  ungodly  hour;  in  nothing  but 
a  bathrobe  and  slippers,  too?  Don't  you  know 
you  are  a  guest?" 

"What  was  your  father  doing  here  in  two  bath- 
robes?" countered  Stephen. 

"He  reads  here  from  six  to  eight  almost  every 
morning  of  his  life,"  replied  Bourne,  "and  makes 
the  office  by  nine.  He  says  he  can't  afford  to 
give  books  the  fag  end  of  the  day. .  That's  why 
he  gave  up  poker — so  he  could  get  to  bed  reason- 
ably early." 

"Oh  no,  it  isn't,"  exclaimed  Stephen. 

"Isn't  what?"  asked  Bourne. 

"Why  he  gave  up  poker.  He's  just  been 
telling  me  the  true  reason.  That's  what  we 
were  laughing  about." 

"Look  here,  Boies,"  said  Bourne,  "I  hate  to 
give  away  my  parent  so  early  in  the  game,  but 
you  might  as  well  learn  now  as  later  that  he  has 
given  at  various  tunes  eighty- two  explanations 
as  to  why  he  quit  poker,  no  two  of  them  the 
same.  Your  number  is  eighty-three." 

"If  that  is  true,"  said  Stephen,  gravely,  "and 
if  ten  of  his  explanations  are  as  juicy  as  the  one 
he  gave  me,  he  has  the  most  wonderful  brain 

62 


COBWEB 

ever  bestowed  on  man.  By  the  way,  what  time 
do  you  make  the  office?  " 

"I  don't  make  it  at  all  at  present,"  answered 
Bourne'.  "  There  are  two  things  that  loom  bigger 
than  work  on  my  horizon  just  now,  and  one  of 
them  is  you.  Put  on  your  clothes.  We  are  going 
to  play  golf." 

"Not  I,  Ritt,"  said  Stephen,  "I've  got  to 
work." 

"You're  going  to  play  golf,"  repeated  Bourne. 
"Dress  and  chuck  a  little  breakfast  into  yourself. 
The  car  will  be  around  in  half  an  hour.  Try  and 
remember  just  for  an  occasional  moment  that 
you  are  a  guest  or  I'll  turn  you  over  to  a  side  of 
my  old  man  that  you  haven't  met  yet.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  his  three-hour  rest  cure  at  Mike's?" 

"No,"  said  Stephen,  stopping  on  the  way  to 
the  door. 

"Keep  moving,"  said  Bourne.  "I  can  talk 
going  upstairs.  A  couple  of  hours  after  his 
arrival  they  lined  him  up  against  a  trainer  who 
said,  'Straighten  up,  you  big  slob,'  and  punched 
him  in  what  looked  like  the  slack  of  his  belly. 
To  all  intents  and  purposes  the  old  man  killed 
that  trainer  and  two  more  immediately  after- 
ward. It  wasn't  fighting;  it  was  plain  stockyard 
slaughter — bullocks  going  down  under  an  ax. 
They  dragged  them  out  the  way  you  steal  meat 

63 


COBWEB 

from  a  tiger,  and  after  a  while  the  proprietor 
put  his  head  in  at  a  window  and  said,  'Mr. 
Bourne,  you've  made  one  of  the  few  mistakes 
of  your  life — you  have  come  to  the  wrong 
place.'" 

"I'll  play  golf  in  exchange  for  that  yarn,"  said 
Stephen,  with  a  chuckle,  "but  for  Heaven's  sake 
don't  make  me  laugh  again  before  I  eat." 

On  the  way  up  the  river  he  said  out  of  a  clear 
sky,  "  Amelie  is  in  town;  she's  living  in  Waverley 
Square." 

"I  know,"  said  Bourne.    "I've  seen  her." 

"You  have!"  exclaimed  Stephen,  and  added, 
after  a  long  pause.  "Ritt,  tell  me  something — 
has  she  bobbed  her  hair?" 

Bourne  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 
"No,  by  cripes!  she  hasn't!  Nor  her  soul." 

"What's  Amelie  doing  in  that  galley?" 

"She  isn't  in  it.  She's  one  of  bored  thousands 
that  have  heard  the  rumor  of  a  promised  land 
where  things  are  different  and  climb  to  the  water- 
shed to  have  a  look  into  the  valley  of  illusion. 
She'll  never  go  through  with  it;  she  isn't  the 
kind  to  plunge  except  into  deep  water." 

"How  do  you  know  so  much  about  my  wife?" 
asked  Stephen,  sourly. 

"Well,"  said  Bourne,  "I  don't  consider  her 
exactly  your  wife  at  present.  I've  been  buzzing 

64 


COBWEB 

her  around  a  bit  to  the  thick,  thin,  and  middling 
stuff  one  finds  below  the  deadwood  line." 

"You  have,  have  you?  Just  how  far  have  you 
gone?" 

"The  farthest  I've  gone  so  far,"  replied 
Bourne,  calmly,  "was  to  grab  her  and  kiss  her 
till  the  blood  came." 

"Are  you  joking?"  asked  Stephen,  turning 
white  at  the  corners  of  his  lips.  "I  think  you 
must  be  or  you  couldn't  imagine  we  were  going 
to  play  golf  when  we  get  out  of  this  car." 

"I  wasn't  joking,"  said  Bourne,  "but  I  forgot 
to  say  it  was  my  blood  that  flowed.  You  haven't 
noticed  the  thin  red  line  that  runs  from  my  eye- 
brow to  the  corner  of  my  jaw.  She  scratched 
me  as  vulgarly  as  a  fishwife  on  the  rampage." 

"  Ritt,  what  on  earth  did  you  do  it  for?  Where 
are  we  with  this  rough  stuff,  anyway?" 

"That's  just  what  I  wanted  to  find  out,"  said 
Bourne.  "Somebody  was  bound  to  try  it 
sooner  or  later  and  I  thought  you  would  rather 
have  it  be  me.  There  was  another  reason,  of 
course.  I  wanted  to  show  her  that  there  are 
times  when  you  can  set  the  Thames  on  fire,  even 
above  tidewater.  She'll  never  be  so  sure  again 
that  my  blood  runs  all  one  way,  and,  incidentally, 
Boies,  while  her  moral  reflexes  are  still  in  perfect 
order,  I  believe  she  enjoyed  the  actual  physical 

65 


COBWEB 

tussle.  She  cried  out  on  the  beastliness,  the  way 
they  always  do,  but  you  never  in  your  life  saw 
just  such  color  in  her  cheeks  or  fire  in  her  eyes. 
Hold  on,  now.  Don't  get  excited.  I'll  tell  you, 
the  whole  thing  gave  me  an  idea." 

"Hold  on  yourself,"  interrupted  Stephen.  "I 
want  to  ask  you  something  in  earnest.  If  you 
had  found  Amelie  a  weak  sister,  would  you  have 
gone  through  with  it?" 

" That's  a  fool  question,"  said  Bourne,  "and 
I  suppose  you  think  it's  a  trouble  maker.  The 
answer  is,  yes;  but  you  and  I  have  known  all 
along  that  Amelie  isn't  of  that  sorority.  She 
isn't  woman  in  the  gutter;  she's  woman  on  the 
warpath,  and  if  you  know  of  any  unfair  ad- 
vantage we  can  take  of  her,  now  is  the  time  to 
take  it,  old  boy.  All  this  talk  of  the  weaker  sex 
makes  me  tremble  for  the  future  of  man.  Women 
can  outsuffer,  outlive,  outlie,  and  outfool  us  by 
the  four  points  of  the  compass.  Their  endurance 
is  phenomenal;  their  perseverance  along  fixed 
lines  is  a  devastation.  Their  name  used  to  be 
mud  and  now  it's  wildfire." 

"I  can  say  amen  to  that,"  said  Stephen. 
"Now  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"There  are  three  ways  to  stop  a  runaway 
horse,"  answered  Bourne,  after  a  moment's 
thought.  "One  is  by  the  curb,  another  is  by 

66 


COBWEB 

cracking  him  between  the  ears  with  the  butt  of 
your  crop,  and  the  third  is  by  rolling  off,  wrap- 
ping yourself  around  his  forelegs,  and  dying  with 
him.  Think  it  out." 

"I  have,"  said  Stephen.  "And  my  conclusion 
is  that  your  time  is  overdue.  God  send  you  a 
wife — any  old  wife.  I've  got  such  a  thirst  for 
matrimony  and  the  aftermath  for  you  that  I'd 
willingly  lose  this  golf  match  to  see  you  hooked. 
You  said  you  had  an  idea.  What  is  it?" 

"You're  going  to  lose  the  golf  match,  anyway," 
replied  Bourne,  "and  the  idea  will  keep  while  I 
prove  it." 

His  prediction  was  fulfilled,  but  during  the  long 
ride  home  the  two  friends  did  not  resume  their 
attack  on  absent  woman;  they  held  their  fire  un- 
til after  dinner,  when  John  Bourne  was  present 
to  balance  the  scales  of  justice.  His  son  started 
the  ball  rolling  with  a  leading  question: 

"Father,  what  do  you  think  is  the  matter  with 
women?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  the  elder  Bourne,  promptly. 
"Nothing  is  the  matter  with  them." 

His  son  stared  at  him  and  waited.  "If  that's 
really  all  you've  got  to  say  on  the  subject,  Boies 
and  I  will  go  up  to  the  garret  and  talk  to  Uncle 
Eli's  Buddha  idol." 

John  Bourne's  eyes  twinkled  and  then  steadied 
67 


COBWEB 

to  a  straightforward  gaze.  "Don't  rush  me," 
he  said.  "If  you  mean  from  my  point  of  view 
I  should  say  that  a  matter  of  a  generation  is 
what's  wrong  with  women.  But  if  you  mean 
from  the  viewpoint  of  your  callow  years,  I  say 
that  you  get  what  you  deserve.  There's  nothing 
more  extraordinary  in  the  history  of  civilization 
than  the  compliance  of  woman  to  the  will  of 
man.  When  nations  have  demanded  Spartans 
among  their  women,  they  have  found  them; 
when  they  have  asked  for  mollusks,  mollusks 
become  a  glut  in  the  open  market." 

He  stopped  speaking  as  though  to  give  the  full 
meaning  of  his  words  a  chance  to  sink  in,  but 
evidently  expected  no  interruption  from  his 
hearers  and  presently  continued:  "My  genera- 
tion asked  a  great  deal  of  woman  and  got  it. 
We  didn't  give  much  in  return  beyond  an  ordered 
life  and  a  high  average  of  fidelity.  We  were  busy 
with  a  forward  movement  and  it  kept  most  of 
us  out  of  mischief  and  many  of  us  in  love.  You 
may  think  that  that  forward  movement  is  still 
on,  but  it  isn't.  As  a  nation  we  have  reached 
the  dangerous  age,  the  years  of  acquisition. 
Think  of  your  aunts,  how  near  they  seem  to  you, 
and  then  remember  that  my  aunt  used  to  go  to 
a  farm  somewhere  around  Bleecker  Street  for 
eggs,  and  when  she  wanted  a  long  gallop  in  the 

68 


COBWEB 

country  she  used  to  ride  out  here  to  Murray 
Hill.  That's  the  measure  of  the  great  move- 
ment, whether  you  apply  it  to  Broadway  or  the 
whole  West,  and  already,  by  your  faces,  I  can 
see  that  it  seems  incredible  to  you.  Your  genera- 
tion is  stagnant,  slack  water  at  the  high  tide  of 
material  prosperity;  but  more  to  be  pitied  than 
blamed.  We  did  it  to  you." 

"I  don't  think  you're  fair  to  us,  sir,"  said 
Boies,  taking  up  the  cudgels  heatedly.  "Or  to 
yourself.  You're  a  traitor  to  your  best  years. 
Take  the  last  ten  of  them;  as  a  surgeon  of  in- 
dustry, you  have  done  more  tangible  good  to 
more  people  than  any  king  that  ever  lived." 

A  sudden  smile  lightened  John  Bourne's 
heavy  features.  "That  came  from  the  heart, 
Boies,"  he  said,  "and  I  thank  you;  but  your 
legal  mind  slipped  a  cog.  I  never  said  that  in- 
dustry isn't  forging  ahead,  running  neck  and 
neck  with  the  progression  of  mechanism;  I 
grant  all  that.  What  I  refuse  to  concede  is  that 
the  caliber  of  our  division  of  humanity  continues 
at  the  old  standard.  A  people  that  builds 
bridges  to  cross  rivers  is  bound  to  be  greater 
than  the  people  that  builds  them  to  sell.  Do 
you  get  that?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Stephen,  thoughtfully,  "that's 
a  true  saying;  but  what  are  you  going  to  do 

69 


COBWEB 

when  all  your  rivers  are  bridged?  Is  every  na- 
tion bound  downhill  from  the  day  it  ceases  to 
move  and  becomes  acquisitive,  as  you  put  it? 
Are  you  that  much  of  a  pessimist?  " 

"I'm  not  a  pessimist,  an  altruist,  or  a  faddist 
of  any  other  variety,"  said  John  Bourne,  quickly. 
"I'm  a  cleaner  of  my  own  and  other  men's 
stables  of  fortune.  That's  my  job.  To  be  an 
industrial  engineer  just  at  this  epoch  seems  to 
me  the  happiest  of  all  destinies.  As  you  in- 
ferred, I'm  a  curer  of  many  ills,  most  of  them 
little,  and  I'm  as  happy  as  a  village  general 
practitioner  with  one  mare  and  a  radius  of  thirty 
miles  of  country  to  his  practice.  But  all  that 
doesn't  prevent  my  standing  on  the  handiest 
hillock  and  reading  the  signs  of  the  times.  The 
soul  of  even  the  meanest  people  dies  hard  be- 
cause it  invariably  feeds  on  the  illusion  of  na- 
tional regeneration.  If  it  weren't  for  that  un- 
dying aspiration,  man  could  never  forget  his 
own  ruins." 

"Boies,"  said  Ritt,  "what  do  you  and  I  get 
out  of  all  this?  The  assurance  that  we  young 
folks  have  been  demanding  facile  women  and 
are  getting  them,  and  that  our  generation  also 
inaugurates  the  aeon  of  senile  decay  in  the  nation. 
I  haven't  carried  a  load  like  that  since  I  was  a 
Sophomore.  I  say  the  innuendo  as  far  as 

70 


COBWEB 

Amelie  is  concerned  is  more  than  an  insult; 
it's  dead  wrong." 

"I  don't  suppose  you  were  even  thinking  of 
Amelie,  Mr.  Bourne,"  said  Stephen,  "but  were 
you  heading  for  her? " 

John  Bourne's  brilliant  eyes  shifted  quickly 
from  one  young  man  to  the  other. 

"It's  hard  to  keep  up  with  your  age,"  he  said, 
as  though  he  were  feeling  his  way.  "I  can't  get 
used  to  the  use  of  names.  "What  I  mean  is  that 
I  remember  the  abstract  as  a  code  among  gen- 
tlemen, but  since  you  have  named  her,  I  can 
say  this.  I  wish  Amelie  were  here,  sitting  in  that 
fourth  chair  as  gravely  as  she  used  to  sit  on  my 
knee  a  good  twenty  years  ago.  If  she  were 
sitting  here  among  us,  all  three  of  us  her  friends, 
I  would  feel  differently  about  talking  of  her  and 
with  her.  I  could  ask  her  what  was  really  the 
matter  and  somehow  I  believe  she'd  tell  me 
frankly  how  bored  she  was  with  looking  out  of 
windows  into  windows;  of  bringing  up  children 
to  anything  as  empty  as  a  universal  rule  of 
acquisition.  She  might  even  go  deeper  and 
sound  the  overwhelming  monotony  of  material- 
ism unrelieved  by  crime  and  of  the  dead  weight 
of  honorable  deportment  without  the  threat  of 
hell  fire." 

He  paused  and  leaned  forward,  fixing  his  eyes 
71 


COBWEB 

on  Stephen,  who  was  listening  tensely  with  both 
mind  and  ears. 

"If  she  were  here,"  he  continued,  "I  might 
talk  to  her  and  play  on  you,  Boies,  so  that  you 
would  feel  in  your  breast  the  birth,  the  warmth, 
the  heat,  and  the  roar  of  the  undying  fire;  the 
stirring  of  those  elemental  emotions  which  are 
not  the  whole  of  love,  but  the  eternal  setting  of 
love.  Life  is  flame,  conflagration — or  a  heap  of 
ashes.  I  wonder  if  you've  ever  thought  that  out. 
There's  really  no  middle  ground.  Either  we  burn 
or  are  of  the  dead." 

Stephen  nodded  his  head,  but  did  not  inter- 
rupt. John  Bourne  paused  and  then  continued : 
"You  can't  put  too  much  emphasis  on  keeping 
alive.  It's  the  one  great  excuse  for  fanaticism 
and  rebellion;  faith,  doubt,  and  even  destruc- 
tion. Why,  I've  seen  many  an  alliance,  many  a 
friendship,  and  many  a  healthy  feud  go  dead  for 
lack  of  a  little  intelligent  kindling.  Haven't 
you?" 

Stephen  nodded  again.  Ritt  glanced  at  his 
father  and  smiled  with  appreciation  and  pride. 
John  Bourne  shot  a  quick,  measuring  look  at 
each  of  them. 

"I  like  a  certain  class  of  murderers,"  he  de- 
clared, belligerently.  "My  heart  warms  to  the 
great  swindlers  of  history;  I  bow  down  to  all 

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COBWEB 

colossal  squanderers  of  vital  treasure.  So  do 
you,  so  do  all  of  us  in  our  secret  hearts.  Why? 
Because  the  outlaw  represents  the  great  revul- 
sions, the  war  of  man's  spirit  on  monotony,  the 
high  flights  of  one  individual's  leaping  imagina- 
tion toward  the  consuming  sun.  God's  curse 
on  all  quitters,  on  all  accepters  of  fate,  on  all 
those  who  prefer  the  estate  of  dead  wood  to 
growing-pains,  and  ignoble  peace  to  any  kind  of 
suffering.  There  you  are.  Perhaps  that  may 
help  you  to  sympathize  with  Amelie,  to  catch 
just  a  glimmering — a  guess — at  where  and  why 
she  stands." 


Chapter  Five 

BOIES  STEPHEN  lay  awake  far  into  the  night, 
but  he  was  not  restless.  He  sensed  an  exhilara- 
tion which  defied  fatigue.  What  liquor  does 
for  some  natures  a  mental  problem  did  for  his. 
He  could  remember  almost  word  for  word  every- 
thing John  Bourne  had  said  and  he  was  conscious 
of  a  surge  of  gratitude  that  the  admonition  had 
here  been  buried  so  deep  beneath  an  obvious 
surface,  there  lifted  to  so  high  though  specula- 
tive a  plane.  He  felt  a  lump  rise  in  his  throat 
at  the  memory  of  the  light,  sure  touch  with 
which  an  image  of  Amelie  had  been  drawn  into 
the  intimate  circle,  as  if  in  protection  not  of  her 
rights  alone,  but  of  all  those  traditions  of  defer- 
ence which  Americans  have  been  wont  to  accord 
to  their  women. 

As  he  lay  wide  eyed  upon  the  bed  he  could  con- 
jure vividly  the  Amelie  of  twenty  years  ago, 
perched  on  John  Bourne's  knee.  He  could 
picture  the  long,  slim  lines  of  her  black-stock- 
inged legs,  the  gravity  of  her  big  brown  eyes, 
the  spots  of  color  in  her  dusky  cheeks,  the  curly 
disorder  of  her  living  hair.  Then,  quite  sud- 
denly, the  vision  faded  into  a  nearer  reality  and 
he  saw  the  Amelie  of  to-day,  joining  them,  sinking 

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COBWEB 

slowly  into  the  vacant  chair,  attending  with  the 
selfsame  gravity  the  conference  of  her  assembled 
judges,  watching  them,  weighing  them  from 
within  that  hidden  fortress  of  the  quickening 
soul  which  he  had  never  been  quite  man  enough 
to  take  by  assault  and  to  hold.  He  dropped  off 
to  sleep  with  a  questioning  smile  on  his  lips 
and  awoke  to  find  Ritt  and  a  flood  of  sunlight  in 
his  room. 

"Boies,  are  you  awake?  Wake  up!  Get  up! 
This  is  to  be  a  great  day  for  you,  old  top.  Roll 
out  and  bump  yourself  on  the  floor." 

"You  remind  me  of  a  kid  that  wants  to  go 
fishing,"  said  Stephen  as  he  stretched  himself 
sleepily. 

"That's  extraordinary!"  cried  Bourne.  "It's 
wonderful,  telepathic!  That's  exactly  what  we 
are  going  to  do.  Get  up  and  put  on  your  rough 
togs." 

"Nothing  like  that,"  said  Stephen,  fully  awake. 
"I'm  going  to  the  office." 

"You  are  not,"  said  Bourne,  promptly.  "I 
telephoned  your  old  office  yesterday  and  told 
them  you  wouldn't  be  in  for  weeks,  and,  God's 
truth,  Boies,  they  said  they  were  delighted." 

"Weeks!"  cried  Stephen.     "You're  crazy.'* 

"That's  just  a  formula  for  telling  a  man  he 
lives,"  replied  Bourne.  "I  like  it.  Try  and 
6  75 


COBWEB 

catch  the  fever.  Get  up.  This  morning  you're 
going  fishing  and  to-night  you  start  on  the 
longest  journey  of  your  life.  Boies,  I've  got 
something  up  my  sleeve.  Are  you  too  sleepy 
to  get  that?" 

Within  an  hour  they  were  on  their  way  and 
Stephen  was  at  the  wheel  of  the  powerful  tour- 
ing car.  Under  Bourne's  direction  they  were 
sweeping  smoothly  toward  those  Connecticut 
hills  which  stop  short  of  the  Berkshires  but  are 
still  well  beyond  the  congested  suburban  area 
of  the  metropolis.  For  four  hours  they  traveled 
on  improved  highways;  then  they  turned  into 
a  clay  road  which  stretched  its  long  silence  along 
the  fronded  reaches  of  a  purling  brook. 

Finally  Bourne  said:  "Get  ready  to  throw  her 
into  second.  Turn  to  the  left  when  I  say  so  and 
turn  sharp.  There's  a  little  bridge  and  then 
you  climb  the  wall  of  heaven." 

He  had  scarcely  stopped  speaking  when  he 
cried  out  the  order.  Stephen  caught  sight  of  the 
little  bridge  just  in  time,  but  there  was  a  look 
of  dismay  on  his  face  as  he  swung  the  car  wide, 
turned  it  sharply,  and  drove  it  across  the  rattling 
timbers  into  a  drooping  mask  of  encroaching 
foliage.  The  hood  of  the  car  shed  the  branches 
to  right  and  left  and  the  engine  rose  suddenly 
to  a  sharp  angle  of  ascent. 

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COBWEB 

"Change  your  gears!"  shouted  Bourne.  "We 
don't  want  to  stick  here." 

Stephen  obeyed  quickly,  changed  to  second 
and  then  to  first.  The  whirling  wheels  cut 
through  the  in  crusting  moss  of  the  ruts  of  a 
wood  road  and  took  a  grip  on  the  rock  foundation 
that  lies  close  to  the  surface  of  every  New 
England  hill.  The  car  shot  forward  and  began  a 
long,  grinding  climb,  mounting  along  curves  and 
by  sharp  rises  and  short  dips  to  higher  and 
higher  levels.  The  steady  whir  of  the  engine 
seemed  a  noise  clean  cut  and  separate  from  the 
wide  blanket  of  silence  of  the  surrounding  wilder- 
ness. The  closely  interlaced  second-growth  for- 
est presented  an  apparent  barrier  which  never- 
theless opened  steadily  in  a  restricted  arch  as 
though  to  guide  the  noisy  interloper  deep  into 
its  fastnesses  before  overwhelming  commotion 
with  a  triumphant  stillness. 

The  car  came  out  on  a  plateau,  relatively  flat 
but  still  thickly  wooded.  The  character  of  the 
soil  changed,  and  with  it  the  nature  of  the  trees. 
The  road  descended,  turned  sharply,  and  ended 
quite  abruptly  almost  under  the  eaves  of  a  log 
cabin  built  on  a  bold  promontory  of  rock  which 
hung  above  a  dark  pool.  On  one  side  a  group 
of  large  hickories  shaded  the  spot;  on  the  other 
the  gaze  fell  away  by  descending  terraces  of 

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matted  brier  patches,  blots  of  juniper,  and  a  sea 
of  autumn-painted  foliage,  until  it  caught  the 
blue  glint  of  far-away  water.  With  the  stop- 
ping of  the  engine  a  pulsing  quiet  repossessed 
the  scene. 

Bourne  left  the  car  and  led  the  way  to  the 
cabin.  It  had  a  porch,  a  sort  of  gallery  running 
the  full  length  of  its  front,  sturdily  roofed  with 
logs  and  clapboarded  above.  He  turned  and 
waited  for  Stephen,  who  approached  slowly,  as 
though  he  needed  time  to  absorb  the  peculiar 
impression  of  so  unexpected  a  conclusion  to  the 
long  ride;  then  he  pointed  out  the  strange  shape 
of  the  deep  tarn,  almost  circular  at  one  end,  with 
a  long,  narrow  arm  reaching  toward  the  north. 

"Long  Leg  Hole  is  the  name  of  this  place," 
he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause.  "There  are  a 
lot  of  these  freak  ponds  on  the  tops  of  Connecti- 
cut hills,  but  this  is  the  only  really  attractive 
one  I  know.  It's  deep,  too,  and  the  old  man 
has  stocked  it  with  lazy  carp.  He  owns  two 
hundred  acres  of  the  scrub  around  here;  he  says 
it  makes  a  wall  just  soft  and  thick  enough. 
Come  inside." 

They  entered,  and  for  half  an  hour  Stephen 
said  not  a  word;  he  was  taken  up  with  enumerat- 
ing the  almost  countless  touches  of  an  inexpert 
hand  bending  to  the  homely  uses  of  comfort  and 

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convenience  such  materials  as  could  be  come  by 
readily  in  so  secluded  a  spot.  The  rush-seated 
chairs,  the  boards  for  floor  and  shelving,  the 
dulled  kitchen  utensils,  and  the  simple  chinaware 
had  been  transported  from  some  near-by  town; 
but  the  awkward  construction  of  tables,  cup- 
boards, and  a  couch,  the  rough  stone  and  mortar 
of  the  huge  fireplace,  of  the  outside  chimney  and 
many  kindred  features,  proclaimed  the  handi- 
craft of  an  amateur  brought  face  to  face  with 
necessity  and  conquering. 

The  place  was  musty,  but  only  faintly  so,  for 
fabrics  were  absent  from  its  furnishings  and 
there  was  little  within  its  four  walls  to  gather 
dust  or  create  mold.  Its  larder  was  well  stocked 
with  such  staples  as  do  not  readily  spoil — sugar, 
salt,  cereals  in  packets,  tinned  vegetables  and 
meats,  and  a  long  row  of  bottled  preserves. 
While  Stephen  was  looking  these  over  Bourne 
disappeared,  and  presently  returned  from  the 
car  bearing  two  large  baskets  of  provisions  which 
he  heaped  unceremoniously  on  the  one  big  bed. 

"What's  the  idea?"  asked  Stephen,  curiously. 
"Are  you  and  I  going  to  live  here?" 

"No,"  said  Bourne.  "I'm  not,  anyway. 
There's  a  chunky  boat  lying  around  somewhere. 
We'll  go  fishing  for  a  while  and  then  beat  it  for 
home.  I'd  like  to  take  J.  E.  a  carp  or  two  just 

79 


COBWEB 

so  he'll  know  we've  been  here  without  my  having 
to  talk  about  it.  Soon  after  my  mother  died  he 
disappeared  for  a  couple  of  months  and  gave  us  a 
lot  of  worry.  He  came  up  here  and  built  this 
place  mostly  with  his  own  hands.  I  can't  tell 
you  very  well  what  he  did  it  for,  and  I  don't 
suppose  he  could,  either,  because  since  it  was 
finished  he  has  hardly  ever  come  out  here.  He 
made  a  half-hearted  effort  to  explain  the  business 
to  me  once,  but  he  didn't  finish.  He  didn't  have 
to.  Somehow  I  knew,  without  being  actually 
told,  why  he  did  it.  It  was  an  overpowering 
impulse,  a  reaching  out  for  something  basic  like 
a  foundation.  I  can't  tell  you  in  words  any 
more  than  he  could  me,  but  I  felt  it,  all  right. 
In  building  a  house  with  his  own  hands  J.  E. 
!was  just  rebuilding  himself  after  an  earthquake." 

When  they  were  ready  to  start  for  home 
Stephen  suggested  that  he  be  relieved  at  the 
wheel,  but  Bourne  refused. 

"Boies,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  drive  because 
you've  got  to  know  this  road  and  know  it  well. 
Did  the  old  man's  talk  get  you  last  night?  Have 
you  thought  it  over?  " 

"It  did  and  I  certainly  have,"  replied  Stephen. 
"If  what  he  said  hadn't  been  holding  me  in  a 
sort  of  puzzled  trance,  do  you  think  you  could 
have  run  me  into  a  jaunt  of  this  kind  and  fooled 

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COBWEB 

around  with  mysterious  suggestions  and  groceries 
without  bringing  down  an  avalanche  of  questions 
on  your  busy  head?  Come  on,  now,  just  what 
is  the  game?  " 

During  half  the  long  ride  back  to  town  Bourne 
expounded,  expostulated,  and  pleaded;  during 
the  other  half  the  two  friends  sat  in  a  purposeful 
silence  which  was  almost  as  intense  as  the 
argument  that  had  preceded  it.  Stephen's  eyes 
were  fixed  unswervingly  on  the  road;  he  seemed 
to  be  rising  slowly  but  steadily  toward  one  of 
those  decisions  which,  once  taken,  project  a 
lasting  implication  throughout  the  rest  of  life. 
A  peculiar  expression  that  was  half  smile  and 
hah"  light  of  battle  gradually  spread  across  his 
features. 

"All  right,  Ritt,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'm  on." 
His  lips  set  grimly  as  he  added:  "Only,  don't 
think  I'm  going  into  this  for  a  lark.  I'm  not. 
I'm  in  earnest,  in  the  deadest  earnest  I've  felt 
since  my  first  fight  at  school;  and  if  there's  any 
doubt  in  your  mind  or  anything  yellow  in  your 
plans,  back  out  right  now.  Quit  me  while  I'm 
cold,  but  don't  try  it  after  my  blood's  up.  I 
mean  it." 

Bourne  caught  his  friend's  elbow  in  a  firm  grip 
and  pressed  it,  but  he  said  nothing.  Before  re- 
turning to  the  house  in  Murray  Hill  they  ran  the 

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car  into  a  garage,  replenished  gas  and  oil,  filled 
the  grease-cups,  and  lubricated  the  springs; 
then  they  drove  to  a  chauffeur's  outfitting  es- 
tablishment, where  Stephen  made  several  pur- 
chases, among  them  a^  dark-green  khaki  uniform, 
a  visored  cap,  and  an  enormous  pair  of  dust 
goggles.  Half  an  hour  later  they  were  at  home 
and  Boies  was  listening  to  Bourne's  end  of  a 
telephone  conversation  with  Amelie. 

"No,  I  don't  feel  especially  cowardly,  because 
I'm  not  a  coward.  You  are  the  coward.  .  .  . 
That's  all  nonsense!  You're  just  as  strong  as  I 
am.  A  ride — a  tearing  ride  into  the  October 
country.  There's  a  chill  in  the  air  that  sets  your 
blood  to  racing  and  a  burst  of  color  on  the  hill- 
sides that  makes  your  heart  ache.  We'll  start 
now  or  whenever  you  say;  in  an  hour  or  two 
hours  or  when  the  moon  rises.  .  .  .  You  wouldn't 
swallow  freedom  if  it  climbed  in  through  a  yawn 
and  went  to  sleep  in  your  throat.  .  .  .  You're  not 
playing  with  fire;  you're  just  hiding  in  a  hole  the 
way  a  dog  does  when  he  knows  his  day  is  finished. 
.  .  .  I'll  promise  nothing.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  will  be  a 
driver  if  you  say  so.  ...  All  right." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  toward 
Stephen  with  a  gesture  of  finality.  "We're  in 
for  it,"  he  said.  "You'll  have  to  cough  a  lot  and 
have  a  bad  cold.  It  isn't  really  chilly  enough  for 

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a  high-collared  coat,  and  as  for  those  big  goggles, 
they  are  an  anachronism;  they  don't  go  with 
oiled  macadam  roads.  Amelie  isn't  a  fool." 

Stephen  snapped  his  fingers.  "If  you've  got 
your  lines  half  learned,"  he  said,  "and  don't  fall 
all  over  yourself,  Amelie  isn't  going  to  worry  a  lot 
about  whether  your  driver  has  a  cold  or  the 
smallpox.  When  do  we  start?" 

"We've  got  a  couple  of  hours  for  a  bath  and  a 
bit  of  a  rest.  How  do  you  feel?  You've  done  a 
stiff  lot  of  driving  already.  Shall  I  try  to  put  it 
off  till  to-morrow?" 

"No!"  shouted  Stephen  and  made  for  his  room. 

Two  hours  later  almost  to  the  minute  they 
were  at  the  apartment  in  Waverley  Square. 
Without  a  glance  at  his  driver,  Bourne  hurried  in 
and  up,  and  did  not  return  before  he  had  engaged 
Amelie  in  an  animated  discussion.  He  let  her 
climb  unaided  into  the  car  and  sprang  in  beside  her. 

"But  I  tell  you  you're  wrong,"  he  exclaimed 
as  the  car  started  smoothly  away.  "A  man  can 
pull  almost  any  woman  down;  he  can  never 
raise  one  up.  You  never  want  to  be  improved, 
not  one  of  you.  The  thought  that  there's  room 
for  improvement  is  one  that  no  lover  ever  dare 
harbor;  to  any  woman  it's  proof  positive  that 
his  love  is  on  the  wane,  and  she's  right,  by 
Jove!  But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I'm 

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COBWEB 

not  talking  from  a  tank  of  hot  air,  but  from  the 
strangest  and  newest  reservoir  of  statistics  that 
was  ever  collected  to  show  one  thing  and  proved 
another." 

"What  reservoir  are  you  thinking  about?" 
asked  Amelie. 

"The  researches  of  the  motion-picture  in- 
dustry," replied  Bourne.  "Don't  yawn.  It 
won't  take  me  more  than  a  minute  to  tell  you. 
Those  chaps  have  begun  to  systematize  results. 
They  want  to  know  what  the  public  really  wants. 
There  isn't  a  drop  of  sestheticism  to  a  hogshead 
of  their  blood.  They  have  found  out  that  the 
greatest  pictures  from  a  point  of  technic  or  dif- 
ficulty in  production  are  small  in  the  eyes  of  the 
box  office,  and  that  the  most  stupendous  educa- 
tional film  ever  shot  will  hold  men,  but  never  an 
audience  of  women,  and  of  course  women  are 
their  great  source  of  revenue.  Women  aren't 
only  impatient  of  improvement,  of  any  broaden- 
ing that  isn't  absorbed  without  conscious  effort; 
they  are  inherently  vicious." 

"Because  they  don't  care  whether  they  learn 
or  not  how  a  flower  unfolds,"  murmured  Amelie, 
"or  how  a  turbine  turbs,  or  why  a  snowflake 
falls  or  sparks  fly  up,  that  proves  them  inherently 
vicious,  does  it?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Bourne.  "What  proves 
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COBWEB 

them  so  is  that  woman  in  the  mob  admits  only 
one  current  in  life;  only  one,  mind  you — sex. 
Not  presented  in  a  grossly  vulgar  way,  but  in- 
sidiously. When  she  is  most  natural  she  has 
just  the  one  hunger,  the  one  demand." 

"  That's  a  lie,"  said  Amelie. 

"It  maybe  a  lie  to  you  as  an  individual,"  said 
Bourne,  calmly,  "and  at  this  special  stage  of 
your  development,  but  it  isn't  a  lie  in  the  face 
of  the  average  mean  of  womanhood." 

Amelie  made  a  quick  movement  toward  him. 
"I  admit  it,"  she  said.  "Women  are  vile;  they 
are  low  without  knowing  it,  which  is  as  low  as 
you  can  get.  But  if  you  don't  mind,  Ritt,  I 
would  so  much  rather  talk  about  something  else. 
When  you  said  over  the  phone,  'a  tearing  ride 
into  the  October  country,'  I  gulped,  I  almost 
cried.  If  you  had  been  there  I  might  even  have 
thrown  my  arms  around  your  neck." 

"Why,  Amelie!"  cried  Bourne,  drawing  close 
to  her,  "what's  come  over  you?  Are  you  really 
human  under  your  skin?" 

"No,  nothing  like  that.  Please  don't.  It's 
so  hard  for  me  to  remember  how  really  noble  man 
is  when  Ritt  Bourne  makes  love  to  Boies 
Stephen's  wife.  And  you  have  never  even 
bothered  to  ask  me  why  I  did  it!" 

"Oh,  Amelie,"  said  Bourne,  "don't  let's 
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COBWEB 

bother  about  all  that.  Please  sit  close;  please 
be  a  pal;  please  let's  hold  hands  like  two  kids 
out  for  a  treat.  It  isn't  silly;  truly  it  isn't." 

"But  where's  the  meaning  in  it?"  asked 
Amelie,  earnestly.  "Why  should  I  do  it  if  I 
don't  feel  like  doing  it?  How  long  have  you  been 
in  love  with  me?" 

"I'm  not  in  love  with  you." 

"Then  why  do  you  try  to  hold  my  hand  and 
kiss  me  and  do  things  like  that  when  I  don't 
want  you  to?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  why,"  said  Bourne,  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought.  "Do  you  remember  as  a 
youngster  ever  coming  on  a  cat  or  a  dog  or  a 
porcupine  or  a  snake  or  a  rabbit  asleep?  What 
was  your  natural  impulse?  To  wake  them  up 
every  time.  That's  an  instinct  with  everybody; 
some  nasty  people  get  a  regular  itch  when  they 
see  somebody  else  asleep." 

"Well?"  said  Amelie. 

"That's  all,"  said  Bourne.  "I  find,  after 
thinking  I  knew  you  for  years,  that  you've  been 
sound  asleep  all  the  tune.  You  were  wound  up 
to  walk  and  talk,  but  nobody  has  ever  touched 
the  spring  that  will  make  your  blood  leap  like  a 
mad  thing  and  hammer  at  your  temples  till  it 
deafens  you.  You  are  a  sort  of  lovely  doll  with 
genuine  human  hair." 

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COBWEB 

"Isn't  your  driver  going  awfully  fast?"  asked 
Amelie,  suddenly. 

"Don't  worry,"  answered  Bourne.  "He's  a 
good  driver  if  he  isn't  good  at  anything  else." 

"And  you  think,"  continued  Amelie,  re- 
turning to  the  subject  of  herself,  "that  a  man  who 
doesn't  love  a  woman,  who  doesn't  even  lie 
about  it,  can  make  her  blood  leap  like  that? " 

"I  know  it,"  said  Bourne.  "A  man's  at- 
traction for  any  grown  woman  doesn't  hang  on 
whether  he's  in  love  with  her,  or  on  whether  he's 
noble  or  mean,  young  or  old,  rich  or  poor.  It 
depends  entirely  on  whether  he's  positive  to  her 
negative  in  a  highly  charged  physical  battery. 
If  he  is  and  has  the  patience  to  wait,  God  help 
her!  The  more  of  a  cad  he  turns  out  the  farther 
she'll  go." 

"Ritt,"  said  Amelie,  "you  are  horribly 
wrong,  and  even  if  you  aren't,  you  are  wrong. 
I'll  have  to  explain  that,  I  suppose.  What  I 
mean  is  that  all  this  scientific  popular  knowledge 
of  physical  impulses  is  more  than  depressing. 
It  doesn't  lead  clean  even  when  it's  accurate; 
it  debases.  It's  as  though  you  pulled  women  to 
pieces  not  to  find  their  strength,  but  their  flaws. 
Women  can't  afford  to  be  pulled  to  pieces. 
They  know  it.  They  must  be  taken  whole  and 
held  whole  or  they  crumple  up — like  that!" 

87 


COBWEB 

She  closed  her  hand  into  a  tight  ball  and  then 
threw  it  open  with  a  gesture  of  abandonment. 
"I  won't  let  you  or  any  man,"  she  concluded, 
"make  love  to  me  as  a  matter  of  technic." 

' '  Then  you  are  the  loser, ' '  said  Bourne.  ' '  Now 
just  give  the  making  of  love  as  an  abstract  game 
a  chance.  Don't  sit  in  an  enemy  camp  and 
shoot  arrows  at  me.  How  can  I  talk  to  you  and 
reach  you  when  you  are  so  far  away?  Come 
closer;  yield  just  a  little.  Let  yourself  go  just 
far  enough  to  see  into  my  country.  Think  of 
my  arm  around  you  not  as  a  contact,  but  as  a 
symbol  of  warmth.  I  tell  you  I've  never  yet 
made  love  to  you.  Nobody  ever  has.  Trust 
me.  Close  your  eyes." 

"How  can  I,"  said  Amelie,  impatiently,  "when 
this  car  is  making  fifty  miles  on  the  clear  and 
sixty  on  the  turns?  Speak  to  the  driver  or  I'll 
get  out  and  walk — and  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't 
talk  so  loud!" 

"The  driver's  all  right,"  said  Bourne,  nerv- 
ously. "We'll  just  have  to  get  used  to  him. 
He's  slow  as  molasses  in  everything  else, 
but  when  he  gets  in  a  car  he  has  to  have  a  stiff 
breeze  to  breathe.  Don't  think  about  him." 

"Where  are  we?"  demanded  Amelie.  "We're 
miles  and  miles  from  town  already.  Where  are 
we  going?" 

88 


COBWEB 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Bourne.  "Why 
worry?  Didn't  I  promise  you  a  tearing  ride 
into  October  country?  And  October  is  the  king 
month,  a  man's  month.  Champagne  and  a 
queen's  crown  for  April,  but  October  is  a  vintage 
Burgundy,  monarch  of  wines,  food  and  drink  for 
the  grown  soul.  April  is  amber  seen  through 
water,  youngsters'  spring  kisses;  but  October  is 
the  heart's  blood  of  the  year." 

"It's  extraordinary,"  murmured  Amelie,  "the 
way  a  man's  talk  improves  when  his  friend's 
wife  is  living  on  her  own.  There,  take  my  hand. 
I  feel  better  because  I  know  the  worst;  this  car 
can't  possibly  go  any  faster  if  it  tries,  and,  inci- 
dentally, thank  God  for  headlights.  Now  tell  me 
the  reason  of  rack  and  ruin.  I'll  close  my  eyes." 

"The  reason  of  rack  and  ruin?"  repeated 
Bourne  and  paused.  "I  think  I  know  what  you 
mean,"  he  went  on.  "You  wonder  why  now- 
adays our  world,  yours  and  mine,  seems  to  make 
only  to  break.  I'll  tell  you  if  you'll  only  lie  still. 
It's  a  question  of  mechanism.  Anyday  laborer  can 
marry  happily;  they  do  it  by  millions.  But  the 
moment  you  get  into  the  industrial  class  you 
begin  to  find  here  and  there  the  seed  of  unhappi- 
ness,  and  when  you  pass  up  to  people  who  live 
purely  on  their  nerves  that  miserable  seed  seems 
to  have  been  sown  broadcast." 

89 


COBWEB 

"That's  true,"  said  Amelie.    "But  why?" 

"This  is  why,"  continued  Bourne.  "A  lot  of 
forces  outside  of  man  have  combined  toward  the 
mechanical  refining  of  women.  If  he  alone  had 
built  up  the  intricacies  of  the  modern  woman  he 
might  have  the  touch  of  the  master  at  his 
fingers'  ends  and  be  able  to  handle  the  machine, 
make  it  run  smoothly  without  knowing  it  was 
running.  But  unluckily  for  all  of  us,  his  finesse 
hasn't  kept  up  with  the  growth  of  nervous 
tension.  It  went  to  sleep  at  the  stage  of  the 
pick  handle  as  an  answer  to  the  flying  frying 
pan." 

"I'll  admit  all  that,"  said  Amelie.  "Really, 
Ritt,  you're  wonderful,  and  I  never  knew  it 
before!  Now  what's  the  way  out? " 

"The  long  way  out,"  replied  Bourne,  un- 
daunted, "is  for  man  to  stay  up  nights  learning 
finesse.  That's  theoretical  and  applies  to  the 
future  of  the  genus  as  a  whole.  But  taking  any 
individual  case,  I  should  say  there's  only  one 
way  to  get  results  in  time  and  that  is  to  open 
up  any  given  woman  with  an  ax,  pick  out  all  the 
tiny  wheels,  springs,  gadgets,  and  dewflickers 
that  aren't  essential  to  her  elemental  functioning, 
and  throw  them  in  the  family  ash  can.  I'll  tell 
you  why  I  believe  that;  I  mean  believe  it  in 
dead  earnest,  with  all  my  heart." 

90 


COBWEB 

"Yes,"  said  Amelie,  "go  on.  I'm  feeling  what 
you  say,  Ritt;  I  really  am." 

"I've  known  of  two  or  three  cases,"  complied 
Bourne,  "where  men  with  butterfly  wives  have 
gone  to  smash  and  dropped  clean  out  of  view, 
and  once  myself,  and  the  other  times  somebody 
else,  came  across  those  ruins  and  found  a  live 
young  tree  of  content.  Their  women  had  re- 
verted to  every  basic  trait  that  tends  to  sane 
building.  They  had  been  swept  clean  of  fur- 
belows to  their  foundations,  and  the  foundations 
were  solid,  by  God!  There  are  the  thousand 
times  when  butterflies  have  quit  cold  on  disaster, 
and  added  shame  to  it,  but  the  one  woman  who 
doesn't  fills  my  eyes  so  full  that  I  can't  see  the 
rest." 

The  car  slowed  down  violently  with  a  long- 
drawn  screech  of  the  brakes,  swerved,  turned, 
rattled  across  a  groaning  bridge,  and  plunged 
with  a  swish  into  a  bank  of  foliage.  The  driver 
changed  speeds  with  a  horrible  grinding  of  the 
gears  that  shattered  the  silence  of  the  night. 
Amelie  did  not  scream;  she  gasped  and  seized 
Bourne's  arm  with  both  hands. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
"What  has  happened?" 

"Nothing,"  replied  Bourne,  reassuringly. 
"Nothing  at  all.  Don't  be  frightened.  Look 
7  91 


COBWEB 

at  the  light  on  the  leaves.  Did  you  ever  see  a 
more  wonderful  effect?" 

The  car  jounced  along  the  ruts  of  the  wood  road, 
ground  down  into  them,  and  seemed  to  take  a 
grip  on  one  rock  only  to  leap  with  a  bone- 
racking  jerk  to  another.  Gradually  it  steadied 
down  and  began  to  climb  up  and  up.  All  about 
it  was  an  impenetrable  darkness,  crowding  close 
upon  the  vivid  illumination  pouring  upward  from 
the  headlights. 

"Ritt,"  cried  Amelie,  suddenly,  "I  am  fright- 
ened. Where  are  we?  Where  are  you  taking 
me?" 

He  did  not  answer.  She  waited  breathlessly, 
but  still  he  did  not  speak. 

Her  body,  held  closely  in  the  crook  of  his  arm, 
began  to  tremble  as  with  an  ague.  All  the  poise 
of  the  finished  woman  deserted  her  by  visible 
layers,  leaving  her  more  and  more  natural, 
naked  and  stripped  of  veneer.  Her  teeth  chat- 
tered; her  lips  grew  parched;  they  ached  with 
dryness.  She  wet  them  with  her  tongue.  Bourne 
felt  the  pounding  of  her  heart  against  his  breast. 
He  put  his  face  close  to  hers. 

"Amelie,"  he  asked,  "are  you  awake?  Have 
you  really  begun  to  feel?  Has  your  blood 
started  running  uphill?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  stammered 
92 


COBWEB 

Amelie.  "I  only  know  that  I'm  not  a  coward — 
not  really  a  coward."  A  lump  rose  in  her  throat. 
She  fought  it  down.  "I'm  not  a  coward,"  she 
said  again  and  again;  and  with  each  repetition 
her  body  stiffened,  grew  slowly  vibrant  as  a 
strung  cord. 

The  car  stopped.  Bourne  lifted  her  out.  Her 
limbs,  all  her  body,  were  rigid,  yet  quivering  as 
to  one  supreme,  desperate,  and  transcending 
effort. 

"Boies!"  she  screamed,  full  throated,  pouring 
the  whole  sum  of  herself,  the  last  drop  of  her 
pent-up  strength,  into  the  cry. 

"I'm  here,  Amelie,"  said  Stephen,  hoarsely. 
He  turned  violently  toward  Bourne.  "Damn 
you,"  he  whispered  through  white  lips,]  "give 
her  to  me!" 


Chapter  Six 

STEPHEN  held  his  wife  tightly  in  his  arms.  He 
watched  Bourne  turn  in  unsmiling  panic,  spring 
into  the  car,  seize  the  wheel  with  nervous  hands, 
and  whirl  the  machine  around  with  a  reckless  dis- 
regard for  rocks,  stumps,  or  the  near-by  cliff. 
He  stood  quite  still,  listening  while  the  whir  of 
the  engine  drew  swiftly  away  and  died,  leaving 
behind  it  a  profound  silence.  Then,  gradually, 
he  became  conscious  of  a  movement  or  a  throb- 
bing sound.  It  was  Amelie's  heart  beating 
furiously  against  his  side  with  a  staccato,  inter- 
rupted rhythm  that  had  a  choke  in  it  like  a  sob. 
She  clung  to  him  with  both  hands  as  though, 
but  for  her  desperate  grip,  her  body  would  slip 
to  the  ground. 

He  held  her  still  more  closely,  and  presently  she 
shuddered  and  began  to  weep  unrestrainedly. 
The  tears  poured  down  her  cheeks;  she  cried  with 
a  will,  a  whole-heartedness  which  surpassed  in 
tensity  any  outburst  of  her  childhood;  and  while 
she  cried  she  burrowed  her  wet  face  deeper  and 
deeper  into  his  coat.  He  petted  her  on  the  back 
and  marveled  at  the  nearness,  warmth,  and 
mobility  of  her  flesh.  It  seemed  to  him  that 

94 


COBWEB 

never  before  had  she  been  so  near  to  him,  so 
hovering  on  the  brink  of  total  possession. 

Such  moments  of  unbridled  emotion  plunge 
immediately  toward  fulfillment  of  the  heart's 
desire  or  they  suffer  an  abrupt  reaction.  Stephen 
was  too  dazed  or  too  unbelieving  of  his  good  for- 
tune to  press  while  the  luck  was  with  him;  but 
even  if  he  had  realized  his  opportunity  he  might 
still  have  let  it  pass,  intent  as  he  was  on  a  sweep- 
ing readjustment,  a  complete  understanding  and 
its  consequent  rebuilding.  He  had  heard  most 
of  the  talk  between  his  wife  and  Bourne,  and 
while  at  the  first  the  situation  had  amused  even 
though  it  filled  him  with  rage,  it  had  ended  by 
arousing  in  him  all  the  elemental  passions  of  the 
genuinely  jealous  male.  When  he  had  demanded 
Amelie  of  Bourne  he  had  been  ripe  for  combat, 
so  ripe  that,  had  he  been  armed,  he  might  have 
shot  his  friend  and  felt  at  the  moment  not  the 
slightest  compunction.  The  same  temper  was 
still  in  his  mood ;  he  was  seeking  no  compromises. 

He  let  Amelie  finish  her  cry  and  when  he  felt 
her  slowly  pulling  herself  together  he  almost 
welcomed  the  change.  Finally  she  drew  free  of 
his  arms,  fished  out  an  inadequate  pocket  hand- 
kerchief, and  started  to  dab  her  eyes;  then  from 
the  silk  bag  dangling  on  her  arm  she  took  a 
vanity  case  and  by  the  light  of  the  newly  risen 

95 


COBWEB 

moon  prepared  to  powder  her  nose.  Stephen 
reached  forward,  took  the  case  from  her,  not 
hastily,  but  firmly,  and  threw  it  far  from  him. 
It  fell  with  a  splash  in  the  pond. 

"You  won't  need  that  here,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Amelie  measured  him  with  leveled  eyes.  She 
had  been  wearing  no  hat  and  her  disheveled  hair 
stood  out  about  her  head  like  a  filmy  nimbus. 
She  raised  her  hand  slowly  and  laid  it  over  her 
heart,  as  though,  quite  independently  of  the 
matters  which  held  her  thoughts,  she  were 
curious  at  its  continued  rapid  beating. 

"So,"  she  said,  finally,  "you  and  Mr.  Bourne 
laid  a  trap  for  me,  such  a  trap  as  would  fit  a 
chorus  girl." 

Stephen  met  her  gaze  fairly.  "The  most  skill- 
ful and  ornate  traps  in  the  world,"  he  said,  "have 
always  been  laid  for  chorus  girls;  but  without 
flattery  I  wouldn't  have  picked  this  setting  to 
snare  the  best  of  them.  Come  into  the  house." 

"I'm  not  coming  into  the  house,"  said  Amelie. 
"I'm  not  going  to  stay  here  with  you.  I  don't 
know  you." 

"Suit  yourself,"  said  Stephen,  indifferently. 
"You'll  find  it  a  long  walk  through  the  woods, 
but  there's  only  the  one  road." 

He  left  her,  went  into  the  cabin,  lit  a  lamp,  sat 
down,  and  waited.  Only  half  an  hour  elapsed 

96 


COBWEB 

before  she  appeared  in  the  doorway,  but  he  had 
had  ample  time  to  formulate  his  plans.  He  did 
not  move.  She  took  a  tentative  step  into  the 
room  and  waited,  but  still  he  paid  her  no  heed. 

"Well?"  she  asked. 

When  she  spoke  he  looked  up  and  stared  at 
her  from  a  strange  detachment.  He  had  never 
before  thought  of  her  as  satisfyingly  beautiful 
except  to  his  own  eyes,  but  the  woman  before 
him  would  have  struck  a  resounding  chord  of  re- 
sponse in  almost  any  man.  She  had  lost  or 
forgotten  the  cold  security  of  demeanor  which 
the  Amelie  he  knew  best  had  worn  like  a  suit 
of  daily  armor.  Still,  she  did  not  appear  de- 
fenseless; her  charms  had  merely  come  to  breath- 
ing life,  pressed  to  the  surface,  taken  possession 
of  her. 

"Get  ready  something  to  eat,"  said  Stephen, 
"and  after  that  you  can  dig  out  the  linen  and 
make  up  the  bed." 

"Boies,  are  you  joking?"  asked  Amelie,  the 
spots  of  color  in  her  cheeks  deepening. 

"No,"  said  Stephen,  "I'm  not  joking.  I've 
been  working  for  you  for  seven  years;  you  have 
been  under  the  illusion  that  you  were  working 
for  me.  Now  you're  going  to  learn  the  differ- 
ence between  bored  bossing  around  of  a  bunch 
of  maids  and  plain,  everyday,  productive  labor. 

97 


COBWEB 

You're  going  to  work  until  your  back  aches,  and 
the  sooner  you  make  up  your  mind  to  it  the 
better  for  both  of  us." 

Amelie  gave  him  a  long  look,  dropped  her  hands 
to  her  sides,  and  turned  slowly  toward  the  door. 
Stephen  leaped  to  his  feet,  reached  it  before  her, 
and  slammed  it  shut.  Then  he  turned  and 
faced  her.  His  eyes  shone  with  such  a  glint  as 
she  had  never  before  seen  in  them.  His  eye- 
brows twitched  spasmodically,  but  his  jaw  was 
not  trembling;  it  was  set  firmly  in  a  square, 
forward  line. 

" Amelie,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "  listen  to  me. 
I've  never  in  my  life  talked  to  you  as  I'm  going 
to  talk  now.  I  want  you  to  believe  me  when  I 
tell  you  that  you're  going  to  do  as  I  say  or  I  am 
going  to  kill  you.  I'm  glad  you  don't  laugh  at 
that,  Amelie,  because  if  you  did  I  would  show  you. 
I  couldn't  take  a  whip  to  you  or  my  fists.  I 
couldn't  do  that;  I've  thought  it  out.  I 
couldn't  raise  welts  on  you,  bruise  you,  make 
you  ugly,  or  do  anything  that  stops  halfway. 
But  you  know  my  hands,  Amelie,  how  strong 
they  are,  and  if  you  don't  turn  around  and  get 
to  work,  by  God  above  us!  I'll  put  my  fingers 
around  your  throat  and  that  will  be  the  end, 
Amelie,  the  absolute,  peaceful,  eternal  end!" 

They  looked  at  each  other  intently,  their 
98 


COBWEB 

eyes  narrowed,  their  breasts  heaving,  their  fists 
tightly  clenched. 

"Boies,"  said  Amelie,  finally,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  "why  do  you  say  that?  I  believe  you; 
but  why  do  you  feel  like  that?" 

"Because  I'm  tired  of  all  half  rations," 
answered  Boies;  "because  I  refuse  to  join  the 
majority;  because  life  after  a  break-up  wouldn't 
leave  me  whole,  and  I  refuse  to  be  a  walking 
sepulcher.  That's  one  side  of  it.  The  other  is 
that  you're  my  woman.  Nothing  can  change 
that;  you  can't  change  it  and  live.  I  knew  it, 
but  I  didn't  realize  it,  take  in  the  whole  truth 
of  it,  until  I  heard  Ritt  Bourne  making  love  to 
you,  to  my  woman.  Now  get  to  work." 

For  a  moment  Amelie  continued  to  look  at 
him.  A  slow  smile  crept  into  her  eyes  and  then 
to  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  turned  from 
his  stern  visage,  still  carrying  that  smile,  and 
went  to  the  baskets  Bourne  had  left  there  in  the 
morning.  She  paused  over  one  which  contained 
toilet  articles  for  herself,  plain  cotton  night- 
gowns and  a  couple  of  gingham  aprons;  exam- 
ined its  contents  curiously;  put  on  one  of  the 
aprons;  and  then  set  the  basket  aside.  She 
carried  the  parcels  by  armfuls  and  arranged  them 
on  the  shelves  in  the  corner  of  the  great  room 
which  served  as  pantry,  dining  hall,  and  kitchen. 

99 


COBWEB 

Then  she  set  the  table  for  one,  lit  the  small  oil 
range,  put  on  a  skillet,  and  began  to  cook. 

Long  after  the  resulting  odors  had  made  his 
question  unnecessary  Stephen  asked,  "What 
are  you  cooking?" 

"Ham  and  eggs,"  answered  Amelie. 

"I  don't  want  ham  and  eggs,"  said  Stephen. 
"Cook  something  else." 

The  smile  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  trem- 
bled and  died.  She  dropped  the  knife  with 
which  she  was  turning  the  ham  with  a  clatter 
to  the  floor  and  started  to  untie  her  apron. 

"Eat  ham  and  eggs,"  she  said,  with  a  dull 
finality,  "or  kill  me  whenever  you  get  ready." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Stephen,  hastily. 
"I  was  wrong.  I'll  eat  ham  and  eggs." 

Amelie  looked  across  at  him  with  a  last  doubt- 
ing but  defiant  flash.  "And  you'll  fetch  the 
water  and  keep  me  in  kindling  and  wood.  Real 
men  have  always  done  that."  She  stood  waiting 
for  his  answer,  as  though  her  new  world  hung 
on  it. 

"All  right,"  said  Stephen,  after  a  long  pause, 
his  eyes  wandering  in  a  pretended  search  for  the 
wood  box.  "I'll  fetch  the  water  and  light  the 
oil  stove  for  you  in  the  mornings." 

Amelie  turned  her  head  to  stare  at  the  blue- 
flame  range,  bit  her  lip,  and  then  very  slowly 

100 


COBWEB 

resumed  her  smile  and  her  cooking.  She  warmed 
a  plate  and  the  bread  and  presently  told  him  in 
an  unnaturally  subdued  voice  that  supper  was 
ready.  He  arose  and  took  the  single  place  set 
at  the  table  without  remark.  She  stood  at  his 
shoulder,  sliced  his  bread  and  poured  his  water. 
The  despised  ham  and  eggs  were  consumed  with 
apparent  relish,  but  in  silence.  When  the  meal 
was  over  he  went  to  the  door,  threw  it  open, 
drew  a  chair  into  the  chill  air,  and  lit  his  pipe. 
Behind  him  he  could  hear  Amelie  preparing 
something  for  herself,  eating,  and  then  clearing 
things  away,  and  afterward  making  the  bed. 

He  was  very  tired;  he  had  driven  over  three 
hundred  miles  since  early  morning  and  he  wel- 
comed the  thought  of  going  to  bed,  but  before 
he  could  put  it  into  execution  he  fell  sound 
asleep  in  the  big  chair  in  which  he  sat.  Amelie 
spoke  to  him  coldly,  asking  him  to  let  her  pass, 
and,  when  he  did  not  answer,  stood  for  a  moment 
in  hesitation  as  to  whether  she  should  initiate 
another  battle  for  her  rights.  Then  she  saw 
that  he  was  really  asleep,  stepped  carefully  over 
his  legs,  went  out  on  the  gallery,  and  finally 
descended  to  the  rock  and  sat  down  by  the 
water's  edge. 

The  moon  was  high  in  the  heavens.  By  its 
light  she  could  study  at  leisure  the  details  of  the 

101 


COBWEB 

cabin  and  all  its  surroundings.  They  were 
pleasant  to  the  eye;  they  attracted  her.  She 
began  to  feel  a  drowsy  well-being,  arose  hur- 
riedly by  an  effort  of  the  will,  slipped  back 
quietly  into  the  house,  undressed,  and  put  out 
the  lamp.  As  she  slipped  between  the  fresh 
sheets  she  was  conscious  of  a  playful  selfish- 
ness; she  had  the  big  bed  all  to  herself. 

When  she  awoke  it  was  morning  and  Stephen 
and  his  chair  were  both  gone  from  the  doorway, 
which  was  still  wide  open.  The  bed  was  so 
placed  that  she  could  look  out  across  the  plat- 
form of  rock  directly  in  front  of  the  cabin  to  a 
single  gnarled  pine  which  clung  to  the  very  verge 
of  the  pool,  its  roots  fastened  like  clamps  around 
the  weathered  edges  of  the  granite  and  piercing 
it  wherever  they  could  find  a  crevice.  Beside 
the  black  trunk  of  the  tree  stood  in  startling  con- 
trast the  figure  of  Stephen,  erect,  poised  like  an 
arrow  on  a  taut  bowstring.  The  stocky  impres- 
sion he  gave  when  he  had  his  clothes  on  was 
subtly  modified  by  their  absence.  His  stripped 
body  was  a  thing  of  beauty;  it  tapered  in  sweep- 
ing, diminishing  curves  from  broad  shoulders  to 
narrow  hips  and  from  hips  to  ankles. 

He  raised  his  arms  very  slowly  until,  fingers 
touching,  they  made  a  Gothic  point  above  his 
head.  Beneath  him  the  dark  pool  had  been 

102 


COBWEB 

transformed  to  a  misty  cloud  of  gray;  fog  hung 
tenaciously  to  its  surface  in  the  face  of  the  rising 
sun  and  here  and  there  cast  up  a  wisp  or  a  plume, 
as  though  inviting  and  daring  the  bather.  His 
body  inclined  rigidly  forward  like  a  falling  tree, 
shot  out,  and  plunged  from  sight. 

Amelie  drew  a  long,  quivering  breath.  In  the 
hushed  morning  stillness  she  could  hear  the 
swirl  of  the  strokes  of  the  unseen  swimmer 
growing  fainter  and  fainter  as  he  struck  straight 
out  from  shore.  She  imagined  with  a  terrifying 
intensity  the  feel  of  the  chill  water  on  his  warm 
and  active  limbs.  She  envied  him.  Never  be- 
fore had  she  felt  so  strange  and  sensuous  a  desire 
for  an  inanimate  contact.  It  seemed  to  her  that, 
above  all  other  desires,  she  wanted  to  feel  her 
body,  herself,  free  of  all  tramelings,  immersed 
in  the  open  water,  cutting  its  stilly  surface  with 
the  stroke  of  a  white  arm  that  should  drip  jewels 
in  her  upturned  face.  No  need  for  clammy 
bathing  suit  and  confining  rubber  cap! 

She  sighed,  then  caught  her  breath,  slipped 
from  the  bed  and  in  her  cotton  nightgown,  pink- 
footed,  picked  her  way  gingerly  to  the  edge  of  the 
cliff,  laid  her  hand  on  the  rough  trunk  of  the  pine 
tree  for  support,  and  stood  in  comical,  childlike 
hesitation,  rubbing  the  calf  of  her  left  leg  with 
the  arch  of  her  right  foot.  The  fingers  of  her 

103 


COBWEB 

free  hand  played  with  the  buttons  at  her  neck 
and  slowly  unfastened  them.  She  exposed  one 
shoulder  and  stared  at  its  smooth  curve,  paling  so 
quickly  beneath  the  kiss  of  the  morning  air. 
She  pulled  the  gown  down  a  little  farther  and 
with  lips  quaintly  pursed  examined  the  effect 
on  her  other  arm.  A  breeze  arose  as  if  to  a 
challenge,  stirred  the  hair  lying  loose  upon  her 
back,  napped  the  skirts  of  the  nightdress,  and 
incidentally  swept  the  fog  neatly  from  the  face 
of  the  waters. 

"Amelie!"  roared  a  genuinely  shocked  voice. 
"Put  on  your  clothes!  Get  back  to  bed!" 

She  caught  the  folds  of  the  gown  to  her  bosom 
with  both  hands;  tears  of  disappointment  rose 
to  her  eyes.  She  felt  no  shame,  but  as  she  turned 
and  made  her  way  slowly  back  to  the  cabin  she 
grew  grave  with  wonder  at  the  new  spirit,  the  elf, 
the  stranger,  that  had  possessed  her  body. 
She  went  to  the  inadequate  mirror  and  stared  at 
her  reflection.  The  face  she  saw  was  known 
and  unknown;  suddenly  it  smiled  at  her.  Her 
inner  scul  beheld  that  smile  with  amazement  and 
promptly  hurried  away  from  it,  absorbed  but  a 
little  frightened. 

When  Stephen  entered  he  made  no  mention 
of  the  incident  beside  the  pool,  but  he  stared  at 
Amelie  for  a  moment  with  a  blank  quizzical 

104 


COBWEB 

look  such  as  one  might  bestow  on  a  tadpole  hov- 
ering at  the  brink  of  frogdom.  She  glanced  at 
him  quite  coolly.  She  was  fully  dressed  and 
aproned,  and  seemed  to  him  and  to  herself  to 
have  gone  through  a  complete  change  of  identity 
since  the  juvenile  scene  of  only  half  an  hour  be- 
fore. She  had  done  her  hair  very  neatly  and, 
though  neither  of  them  realized  it,  this  simple 
little  fact  alone  implied  an  entire  cycle  of  psycho- 
logical phenomena.  Once  more  woman  had 
succeeded  in  squaring  the  circle  and  was  back 
again  at  normal. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Stephen,  shortly,  out  of 
his  suddenly  acquired  wisdom. 

11  Good  morning,"  replied  Amelie. 

"I  don't  mind  your  eating  with  me,"  he  con- 
tinued in  the  voice  of  an  assumed  concession. 
"  Hurry  things  along.  We're  going  fishing." 

Amelie  paused  in  her  work  for  a  moment  as 
though  she  were  considering  a  crucial  point  with 
proper  deliberation;  finally  she  set  the  table  for 
two,  broke  two  more  eggs,  and  presently  an- 
nounced breakfast. 

"It's  ham  and  eggs  again,"  she  said,  apolo- 
getically, "but  perhaps  it  will  be  fish  for  dinner." 

They  ate  in  silence,  and  while  she  washed  the 
dishes  Stephen  busied  himself  with  preparing 
two  of  the  half  dozen  long  bamboo  fishing  poles 

105 


COBWEB 

with  which  the  cabin  was  stocked,  and  with 
an  excursion  in  search  of  worms,  grasshoppers, 
and  a  few  small  frogs.  As  soon  as  he  was  ready 
he  led  the  way  to  the  flat-bottomed  boat  and 
took  the  oars.  Amelie,  wearing  a  broad-brimmed 
garden  hat  which  she  had  discovered  in  her 
thorough  overhauling  of  the  premises,  sat  in  the 
stern,  staring  with  anticipatory  horror  at  the 
squirming  assortment  of  bait  promiscuously 
tangled  in  the  bottom  of  a  large  glass  jar. 
Stephen  sent  the  boat  along  over  the  smooth 
surface  of  the  water  with  long  lazy  strokes;  both 
of  them  filled  their  eyes  with  the  glory  of  the 
autumnal  woods  under  the  slanting  morning  light. 
They  dropped  the  stone  anchor  just  off  the 
mouth  of  the  straight  narrow  reach  which  had 
inspired  the  name  of  Long  Leg  Hole.  Stephen 
baited  his  hook  with  a  live  frog,  made  a  cast, 
and  swept  the  luckless  animal  in  leaping,  simu- 
lated jerks  around  a  wide  arc;  drew  him  in, 
cast  again,  and  repeated  the  performance. 
There  came  a  sudden  rush,  a  swirl;  the  frog  dis- 
appeared. The  long  pole  bent  in  a  graceful, 
vibrant  curve;  its  tip  dipped  into  the  water. 
He  raised  his  arms,  drove  the  hook  home  with 
a  skillful  modulated  pull,  and  then  steadily  drew 
the  quarry  toward  the  boat.  High  in  the  air  the 
tip  of  the  rod,  bent  almost  double,  trembled, 

106 


COBWEB 

quivered,  and  darted.  He  drew  it  steadily 
toward  his  shoulder.  A  flash  of  white  showed 
close  to  the  gunwale. 

"Quick,  Amelie,  net  him!    Net  him,  I  said!" 

Amelie's  eyes  traveled  wildly  about  the  boat; 
she  saw  the  short-handled  landing  net;  grasped 
it;  slipped  it  under  the  fish;  lifted  him  flopping 
heavily  over  the  side. 

"Oh!  Oh!"shecried.  "Boies,  what  a  beauty!" 

"Black  bass,"  said  Stephen  in  a  voice  of  pride 
and  content.  "I  thought  there'd  be  black 
bass."  He  baited  his  hook  with  a  fresh  victim 
and  prepared  to  cast  again. 

"Oh,  Boies,"  said  Amelie,  in  a  throaty  voice, 
' '  please  don't  be  mean !  Please,  Boies ! ' ' 

He  looked  at  her  and  laughed.  With  her  eyes 
shut  tight  she  was  holding  her  hook  toward  him 
to  be  baited.  He  impaled  a  worm  on  it,  at- 
tached a  sinker  to  her  line,  told  her  to  drop  it  in 
the  water  and  do  nothing  till  she  felt  a  pull. 
Within  five  minutes  she  got  a  bite,  screamed, 
pulled  with  all  her  might.  A  big  and  surprised 
carp  shot  out  of  the  lake,  flew  through  the  air, 
flipped  itself  free  of  the  barb  and  fell,  plunk! 
into  the  boat  at  her  very  feet.  She  laid  aside 
her  fishing  pole  to  gloat  with  shining  eyes  over  her 
captive. 

"Didn't  I  do  that  wonderfully!"  she  cried. 
8  107 


COBWEB 

"He's  big;  for  a  fish,  he's  extraordinarily  large. 
Boies,  shall  we  have  him  stuffed?" 

"If  you  can  make  the  stuffing,  I  don't  mind 
eating  him  that  way,"  said  Boies,  absently. 
"But  I  doubt  whether  that  two-by-nothing  range 
will  be  up  to  the  baking." 

Amelie  studied  his  face  disgustedly;  it  told  her 
nothing;  she  would  never  know  whether  he  was 
making  fun  of  her  desire  to  mount  her  wonderful 
fish  or  not.  She  did  not  take  up  the  rod  again 
nor  ask  him  to  rebait  her  hook.  Guided  by  a 
rare  instinct  which  was  one  of  the  great  factors 
in  her  character,  she  looked  upon  her  career  as  a 
fisherwoman  as  ended.  An  episode  complete  in 
itself,  thoroughly  rounded,  conceived  in  impulse 
and  carried  through  in  a  masterly  manner  to  a 
successful  and  dignified  conclusion,  had  naturally 
exhausted  its  particular  possibilities  of  sensation, 
and  to  do  it  all  over  again  would  have  been 
redundant  and  silly. 

She  curled  up  on  the  broad  stern  of  the  boat 
and  with  a  bit  of  loose  line  tickled  the  shining 
sides  of  her  captive.  He  flopped  occasionally, 
flapped  his  tail,  watched  her  with  a  philosophic, 
unwinking  eye,  and  breathed  more  and  more 
heavily. 

"Boies,"  said  Amelie,  suddenly,  "what's  the 
matter  with  my  fish?  " 

108 


COBWEB 

"Don't  be  silly,"  said  Boies.  "He's  dying,  of 
course." 

Amelie  cared  not  one  whit  how  many  of 
Boies's  rapidly  increasing  catch  should  die, 
but  that  a  like  fate  should  befall  her  prisoner 
of  war  was  intolerable.  With  a  courage  which 
few  can  appreciate  she  set  her  teeth,  held  her 
breath,  fixed  her  eyes,  leaned  forward,  caught 
up  the  slimy  sufferer  in  both  hands,  and  threw 
him  back  into  the  pond. 

"You've  got  more  sense  than  I  thought  you 
had,"  said  Stephen.  "Nobody  wants  to  eat 
carp  when  he  can  have  bass,  and  I've  caught 
plenty." 

He  dragged  the  anchor  aboard,  took  his  place 
at  the  oars,  and  rowed  slowly  into  the  shade  of 
the  shore.  There  he  stopped  and  studied 
Amelie  solemnly  for  some  time.  There  was 
something  unsatisfactory  to  his  mood  in  the 
way  she  was  seated.  He  felt  that  she  had  not 
quite  earned  the  right  to  be  all  of  a  sudden 
so  confoundedly  natural  in  his  presence,  and 
when  she  smiled  he  nodded  his  head  gravely  as 
one  who  says,  "I  thought  so,"  and  decided  to 
speak. 

"Amelie,"  he  said,  quite  seriously,  "there  was 
one  flaw  in  what  I  said  to  you  last  night.  When 
I  said  I'd  kill  you  I  meant  it,  and  you  know  that 

109 


COBWEB 

I  meant  it;  but  unfortunately  you  know  just  as 
certainly  that  that  horrible  possibility  passed 
the  moment  you  gave  in  to  me.  The  weakness 
in  my  position  is  that  you  may  not  feel  bound 
by  the  sporting  obligation  to  carry  through  your 
half  of  that  bargain;  so  I've  had  to  think  up  some- 
thing else.  I  can  imagine  you  forgiving  a  man 
for  knocking  you  down,  but  I  can't  see  you  for- 
giving him  for  spanking  you,  and  that's  what 
I'll  do  to  you  if  you  don't  toe  the  mark — spank 
you  just  the  way  your  mother  used  to  do.  That's 
all  of  that;  I'll  promise  not  to  hark  back  to  it 
unless  you  make  me.  Now  you'd  better  climb 
ashore  and  run  along  home.  I'll  be  there  in  a 
little  while  and,  just  this  once,  I'll  clean  the 
fish." 

The  stern  of  the  boat  bumped  on  the  rock. 
Amelie  arose,  hesitated,  started  to  speak,  changed 
her  mind,  frowned,  smiled,  stepped  ashore,  ran 
along  home,  and  got  to  work.  She  put  the  room 
in  order  and  then  rather  distractedly  began  her 
preparations  for  the  cooking  of  a  real  dinner. 
One  complication  after  another  arose,  for  each 
of  which  she  had  to  unearth  an  expedient  from  a 
portion  of  her  housewife's  mind  which  had  well- 
nigh  atrophied  from  long  disuse.  Before  half  an 
hour  had  passed  her  brain,  her  eyes,  her  arms, 
and  her  back  ached.  She  remembered  that 

110 


COBWEB 

Boies  had  said  she  would  work  for  him  till  her 
back  ached,  but  dismissed  the  recollection 
promptly.  Something  else  absorbed  all  her  at- 
tention— the  question  as  to  which  was  to  be  the 
victorious  warrior,  she  or  the  midday  meal.  She 
won. 

It  was  a  happy  dinner,  one  of  those  unforget- 
able  meals  during  which  food  goes  right  to  the 
spot,  but  where  the  body  retains  the  power  to 
tingle  at  the  casual  contact  of  fingers  across  the 
table  and  to  burn  with  an  ominous  fire  at  the 
surreptitious  pressure  of  a  foot  beneath  the  cover 
of  the  board.  The  first  time  it  happened  Stephen 
could  not  believe  his  senses,  and  was  slow  to 
respond  except  that  his  cheeks  turned  red;  but 
the  second  mischievous  invitation  he  answered  so 
boldly  that  Amelie  arose  and  hurriedly  turned  to 
the  business  of  clearing  up. 

With  the  drying  of  the  last  dish  she  dropped 
the  towel  on  the  table  from  sheer  inertia,  walked 
unsteadily  across  the  room,  collapsed  half  on  the 
couch,  half  on  the  floor,  and  immediately  fell 
sound  asleep.  Stephen  stared  at  her  for  several 
minutes  before  he  could  convince  himself  that 
she  really  slept.  Then  he  picked  her  up  as  one 
would  lift  a  log,  rolled  her  over,  put  a  dark-green 
linen  cushion  under  her  head,  a  rug  across  her 
feet,  and  made  her  generally  comfortable.  He 

111 


COBWEB 

sat  down  in  a  near-by  chair  and  watched  her. 
She  slumbered  steadily  with  that  light,  accurately 
spaced  breathing  which  presages  a  long,  long 
sleep.  Presently  he  left  the  cabin  and  went  for 
a  walk. 

Due  east  of  Long  Leg  Hole,  across  a  deep  val- 
ley, arose  a  hill  of  almost  equal  height,  crowned 
by  a  great  bowlder  silhouetted  against  the  sky 
and  known  as  High  Rock.  It  caught  his  eye  and 
he  made  for  it;  he  plunged  down  the  slope,  first 
through  ground  oak,  berry  vines,  tanglefoot,  and 
scattered  juniper,  then  through  serrated  ranks  of 
the  trees  of  the  second-growth  forest,  and  finally 
through  elderberry  thicket  and  swamp.  He  took 
off  his  coat  as  he  started  up  High  Rock  Hill. 
When  he  reached  the  bowlder  he  found  that  only 
its  western  face  was  sheer;  its  top  was  almost 
level  with  the  soil.  He  walked  out  to  its  edge 
and  filled  his  eyes  with  the  glorious  view,  but 
wherever  he  looked  he  saw  the  face  of  Amelie, 
flushed  in  sleep,  framed  in  tumbled  hair  against 
the  background  of  a  half-embracing  dark-green 
pillow. 

He  drew  a  long,  deep  breath  of  the  cool  air  and 
realized  that  he  was  happy.  A  smile  came  into 
his  eyes  and  played  about  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  He  thought  of  Ritt  Bourne,  and  his 
heart  warmed;  he  made  a  mental  note  of  an 

112 


COBWEB 

apology  only  twenty  hours  due.  Twenty  hours! 
He  felt  that  he  was  a  month  and  a  world  away 
from  yesterday,  and  with  that  thought  came  the 
realization  that  he  was  a  good  five  miles  away 
from  Amelie.  How  had  he  come  to  put  that  dis- 
tance between  them?  What  if  she  should  awake, 
find  him  absent,  and  think  him  gone?  He 
sprang  to  his  feet,  leaped  from  the  rock,  and 
plunged  headlong  down  toward  the  valley. 

When  he  reached  the  cabin  he  was  hot  and 
breathless.  He  rushed  into  its  great  living  room 
with  the  name  of  Amelie  on  his  lips,  ready  to 
shout.  She  was  lying  on  the  couch  as  he  had  left 
her,  still  sound  asleep.  He  kneeled  at  her  side 
and  leaned  over  her,  bringing  his  eyes  close  to 
her  face.  He  saw  the  very  conformation  of  the 
texture  of  her  smooth  skin  and  marveled  at  its 
minute  mechanism,  never  before  discovered. 
He  felt  her  breath,  cool  and  sweet  in  his  dilated 
nostrils,  and  knew  it  for  the  wine  of  love. 
"Amelie,"  he  murmured,  "my  girl." 

She  stirred  restlessly  and  whispered  his  name. 
A  look  of  wonder  swept  across  his  face.  He  felt 
the  age-long  pride  of  the  accepted  lover  stum- 
bling by  God-sent  chance  on  incontrovertible 
proof  of  his  tenure  in  the  heart  of  his  beloved. 
He  laid  his  hand  lightly  upon  her  breast.  She 
stirred  again  and  raised  her  arms  as  if  to  stretch. 

113 


COBWEB 

They  struck  his  overhanging  shoulders  and, 
sleepily  changing  their  intention,  crept  about  his 
neck,  drew  slowly  tight,  and  hugged  him  in  an 
impulsive,  strangling  hold. 

"Boies,"  she  whispered. 

"Yes,  Amelie,"  he  breathed  close  to  her  face. 

"Love  me." 

"I  do  love  you,  darling,  with  all  my  heart." 

"Love  me,"  she  repeated. 

His  hands  slipped  beneath  her  shoulders  He 
drew  her  close  and  kissed  her  until  she  fought 
for  breath,  yet  clung  to  him  with  all  the  strength 
of  her  arms.  When,  finally,  she  released  him,  he 
forced  back  her  head  and  gazed  into  her  eyes, 
still  drowsy,  still  bemused  with  the  great 
awakening. 

"Amelie,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "you'll  never 
leave  me  again?  Never?" 

She  shook  her  head  violently  from  side  to  side 
and  buried  her  face  against  his  breast. 


Chapter  Seven 

BOURNE  had  driven  away  from  Long  Leg  Hole 
in  a  chaotic  state  of  mind.  All  the  way  out, 
during  his  long  conversation  with  Amelie,  he  had 
been  up  to  mischief  and  had  known  it.  He  had 
started  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world  to 
work  her  up  to  such  a  pitch  of  excitement  and 
receptiveness  as  would  give  Stephen  a  chance  to 
strike  from  the  first  on  hot  iron.  He  had  suc- 
ceeded admirably  in  that  intent,  but  at  the  same 
time  he  felt  that  he  had  tormented  his  friend 
beyond  the  fair  limit  of  endurance. 

During  the  long,  lonely  drive  back  to  town  he 
regretted  more  and  more  the  recklessness  with 
which  he  had  teased  Boies  to  the  verge  of  dis- 
traction. There  was  no  doubt  whatever  in  his 
mind  that  he  had  been  as  near  to  serious  bodily 
harm  in  that  tense  moment  of  angry  parting  as 
ever  before  in  his  life.  The  realization  made 
him  feel  a  deeper  respect  for  Stephen  and 
brought  about  an  increase  in  his  affection  for 
him,  gave  it  a  new  angle  and  a  fresh  start  by  the 
impulse  of  the  jolting,  unexpected  blow  delivered 
against  the  monotonous  familiarity  which  breeds 
indifference. 

In  this  mood  he  arrived  at  home  very  late  in  the 
115 


COBWEB 

night,  but  neither  gloomy  forebodings  nor  specu- 
lations as  to  the  dramatic  events  which  pre- 
sumably were  evolving  at  Long  Leg  Hole  could 
keep  him  awake.  He  went  to  sleep  promptly 
and,  having  taken  the  precaution  to  pin  on  his 
door  a  note  addressed  to  Simon,  the  old  butler, 
warding  off  disturbance,  he  slept  far  into  the 
following  day.  When  he  awoke  he  was  imme- 
diately conscious  of  a  great  weight  within  him. 
For  a  moment  he  was  puzzled,  then  he  remem- 
bered the  angry  parting  from  Boies. 

He  bathed  listlessly,  ate  without  relish,  read 
with  apathy  the  morning  paper,  including  the 
social  column,  and  foolishly  spent  the  whole  of 
the  afternoon  in  his  dressing  gown.  He  stared 
at  his  reflection  in  a  long  door  mirror  and  won- 
dered disgustedly  how  six  feet  of  brawn  and 
muscle,  a  square-chinned,  clear-eyed  face,  and 
thirty  years  of  experience  with  the  ups  and  downs 
of  life  could  feel  so  abandoned,  so  miserable,  so 
isolated  from  the  sunshine  outside,  so  aimless. 
He  decided  that  under  no  conceivable  circum- 
stances would  he  attend  that  night  the  opening 
ball  of  the  Bachelors'  series.  He  asked  himself 
if  any  other  full-grown  man  of  his  acquaintance 
ever  sank  into  such  a  puerile  estate  of  self- 
helplessness  and  concluded  that  he  was  probably 
the  loneliest  mortal  in  the  great  city. 

116 


COBWEB 

In  this  assumption  he  was  wrong.  Only 
twenty  blocks  away  the  genuinely  loneliest  person 
in  the  world  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed 
and  staring  disconsolately  out  of  the  window  at  an 
extremely  uninteresting  square  of  blank  blue  sky. 
For  five  days  she  had  been  as  terribly  alone  as  one 
can  be  only  in  a  crowded  city  which  contains  no 
single  familiar  face;  for  just  two  days  short  of  a 
whole  week  Janet,  the  casual  rock  to  which  she  had 
anchored  the  argosy  of  her  precarious  fate,  had 
been  sunk  out  of  sight  and  beyond  the  ken  of  her 
professional  haunts  in  the  duties  of  nursing  sundry- 
blood  relations  stricken  with  the  Spanish  influenza. 

The  young  person  whom  this  chronicle  has 
known  through  the  respectful  lips  of  the  hotel 
lady's  maid  only  as  Miss  Alloway  turned  from 
sky  gazing  to  make  a  determined  effort  toward 
cheering  herself  up.  As  some  girls,  full  grown 
and  old  enough  to  know  better,  still  delight  to 
play  secretly  and  tenderly — God  bless  them! — 
with  dolls,  it  was  her  habit  to  play  with  fancies. 
From  being  tragically  pensive,  her  face  suddenly 
assumed  a  look  of  lively  animation.  She  glanced 
at  the  clock.  Heavens!  She  was  due  to  lunch 
at  the  Ritz  in  only  half  an  hour!  She  leaped  to 
her  feet,  ran  to  the  closet,  slipped  from  their 
holders  an  armful  of  frocks,  and  laid  them  out 
one  by  one  and  side  by  side  on  the  bed. 

117 


COBWEB 

Which  should  she  wear?  Her  brows  puckered 
in  concentrated  thought;  she  raised  a  pointed 
finger  to  her  lips  and  touched  them  lightly.  It 
was  to  be  a  large  party,  eight  at  least,  rather 
formal.  She  thought  of  the  women  first  and 
then  of  the  men.  The  women  she  could  see 
rather  clearly,  but  the  men  were  vague,  all  but 
one.  He  was  tall  and  had  crisp  hair;  he  had 
stared  at  her  in  such  a  nice,  unseeing  way  in  the 
elevator.  She  wondered  if  he  would  remember. 
Perhaps  he  would  say:  "I'm  sure  I  have  seen 
you  before.  Now  tell  me,  haven't  I?"  And  she 
would  smile  for  just  a  moment,  look  at  him  from 
slanting  eyes,  and  say,  with  apparent  irrelevance, 
"Sometimes  when  I'm  feeling  desperately  lonely, 
I  cry.  Not  hard,  you  know.  Just  a  funny  tear 
or  two."  And  he  would  exclaim:  "By  Jove!  I 
knew  it!  In  the  elevator!"  And  then  she 
would  talk  to  him,  talk  of  things  that  no  other 
woman  could  possibly  imagine. 

The  girl  laughed  aloud  and  glanced  quickly 
over  the  dresses  on  the  bed;  she  would  choose 
for  him  and  for  him  alone.  Which  should  it  be? 
There  would  be  another  man  there — the  forward, 
conceited  person  of  the  theater  steps — but  not  at 
their  table.  He  would  be  sitting  near  by  with 
a  rather  frowsy  woman.  One  should  dress  to 
punish  all  such  people;  she  must  strike  a  sure 

118 


COBWEB 

note  of  womanly  elegance,  not  too  girlish,  not  too 
old,  something  that  would  act  as  a  foil  to  her 
pallor  and  still  not  belie  her  youth.  She  de- 
cided; she  put  away  all  but  one  of  the  frocks, 
slipped  off  her  negligee,  and  began  to  dress  in 
serious  haste. 

At  last  she  was  ready,  all  but  one  fastener  at  the 
back,  which,  squirm  and  turn  as  she  might,  she 
could  not  quite  reach.  But  no  matter;  it  would 
not  be  noticed.  She  picked  up  long  gloves  and 
crossed  the  room  to  pose  before  the  pier  glass. 
For  a  brief  second  of  time  her  own  eyes  were 
entranced;  they  filled  themselves  with  the  vision 
of  herself  all  in  black.  There  was  no  severity, 
no  somberness  in  the  filmy  dark  cloud  which 
enveloped  yet  disclosed  her.  All  its  art,  as  is 
true  of  every  masterly  creation  for  the  adorn- 
ment of  the  human  form,  centered  at  the  waist. 
By  carrying  that  crucial  line  a  mere  hair's 
breadth  above  the  normal  and  the  expected 
pitch,  genius  had  made  sure  of  the  suggestion  of 
youth.  Just  below  her  faintly  rounded  breasts 
gleamed  a  dull  plaque  of  gold,  serving  as 
buckle  to  a  false  girdle  and  repeating  the  note 
of  the  floating  flecks  in  her  eyes  and  of  the 
shining  gloss  of  her  tawny  hair. 

Suddenly  she  wounded  her  reflected  self  with 
the  arrow  of  a  hurt  glance.  What  a  waste  that 

119 


COBWEB 

no  eye  but  hers  should  see  the  loveliness  of  her 
soft  but  potent  armor!  What  an  outrage  there 
was  none  who  might  whisper,  "You  look  divine 
to-day!"  What  shame  upon  men  that  not  one 
of  them  could  wear  her  at  his  side  like  a  pearl 
shining  in  a  patch  of  velvet  night!  She  tried  to 
hold  her  vivacious  smile,  but  could  not.  She 
turned  from  the  mirror  with  a  passionate,  re- 
bellious gesture,  and  sank  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed,  her  arms  outstretched,  her  face  buried 
in  the  coverlet.  But  her  despair  lasted  only  for 
a  moment;  then  she  sprang  up  and,  murmuring, 
"I've  had  a  perfectly  lovely  time,  thank  you," 
began  to  disrobe. 

It  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the 
fanciful  play  had  begun,  and  now  evening  was 
falling.  She  decided  disconsolately  to  eat  in  her 
room,  and  ordered  a  simple  meal  and  all  the  new 
magazines.  Dressed  once  more  in  negligee,  she 
trifled  with  the  food  and  then  settled  down  in  bed 
to  read.  Hours  passed,  and  then  her  eye, 
skimming  the  social  calendar  of  the  Spur,  fell 
upon  a  paragraph  of  hyperbole  on  the  significance 
to  a  select  world  of  the  first  of  the  Bachelors' 
dances  of  the  current  season.  Immediately  she 
began  to  dream  again,  to  see  herself  wonderfully 
attired,  hastening  to  add  her  youth  and  beauty 
to  this  gayest  of  all  gay  events.  Again  she 

120 


COBWEB 

glanced  at  the  clock;  again  she  saw  that  she 
had  not  a  moment  to  spare. 

She  arose,  brushed  her  hair,  tossed  it  high 
upon  her  head,  caught  it  here  and  there  with  a 
hairpin,  and  speared  it  with  a  high  onyx-and- 
topaz  comb.  She  surveyed  it  in  hand  glass  and 
mirror  and  stared  in  unbelief  at  the  felicitous 
effect  her  carelessness  had  imparted.  From  that 
moment  her  preparation  took  on  an  added  seri- 
ousness, and  when  at  last  she  was  completely 
garbed,  save  for  one  obstinate  hook  and  eye  low 
down  in  the  center  of  her  back,  she  reached  auto- 
matically for  the  telephone  and  asked  for  the 
chambermaid.  The  woman  came,  opened  the 
door  at  the  girl's  word  of  command,  and  stood 
there  for  a  long  moment,  literally  spellbound. 

"My  dress,"  said  the  girl.  "There's  just  one 
hook  I  can't  reach." 

"Yes,  darling,"  said  the  woman,  taking  the 
privilege  of  her  years.  "There,  now."  Then 
she  added,  after  a  pause  during  which  her  faded 
eyes  had  filled  with  tears  for  the  sheer  pleasure 
of  looking,  "Eh,  but  you  are  as  beautiful  as  a 
wake,  miss." 

The  girl  laughed  happily  and  picked  up  her 
black  evening  coat  of  velvet  and  lace;  the  woman 
hastened  to  take  it  from  her  and  to  place  its  cup 
about  her  bare  shoulders;  then  she  asked  if  she 

121 


COBWEB 

should  order  a  taxi.  For  a  second  only  the  girl 
hesitated,  but  her  spirit  arose  in  arms  against  a 
too  sudden  awakening. 

"Yes,"  she  commanded.  "Tell  them  I  want  it 
at  once." 

She  sat  gingerly  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  tapping 
the  carpet  with  a  slipper  that  was  impatient,  not 
nervous,  and  gazing  before  her  with  the  look  and 
the  smile  of  breathless  anticipation.  The  cab 
was  announced;  she  arose  and  said  good  night 
to  the  ancient  chambermaid,  who  followed 
her  at  several  paces'  distance  until  she  was 
swallowed  from  sight  by  the  elevator.  The  effect 
she  produced  in  the  lobby  was  fully  as  flattering. 
Wayfarers  stopped  in  their  tracks  and  stared  at 
her,  but  not  rudely;  bellboys,  porters,  and  clerks 
ceased  all  labor  to  watch  her  pass;  none  mo- 
lested her;  all  seemed  to  claim  a  share  by  right 
in  a  beauty  which  belongs  in  a  sense  to  the  whole 
world,  the  beauty  of  free  and  unsullied  things  such 
as  sunlight,  white-capped  seas,  and  the  heart  of 
any  fire.  She  sped  by  as  lightly  and  as  proudly 
as  foam  riding  home  on  the  crest  of  a  high 
wave.  The  starter  held  wide  the  door  of  the 
waiting  cab  and  bowed  low. 

"Where  to,  miss?"  he  asked. 

"To  the  Vanderbilt,"  answered  the  girl, 
promptly.  "The  south  side." 

122 


COBWEB 

She  bowed  and  smiled  her  thanks  to  him  as  the 
cab  started,  and  almost  immediately  after 
crumpled  into  a  pitiful  heap  in  the  darkest  of  its 
corners.  The  most  courageously  piloted  dream 
cannot  last  forever;  she  had  postponed  awaken- 
ing to  the  last  moment,  but  now  it  would  take  a 
sure  hand  indeed  to  save  the  frail  craft  of  her 
fancy  from  crashing  on  the  rocks  of  reality.  She 
asked  herself  almost  wildly  what  she  was  to  do. 
When  the  maid  had  suggested  a  cab  it  had 
seemed  so  simple  a  thing  to  take  a  ride  in  her 
fine  feathers  and  return  at  will;  but  now  she 
knew  that  she  could  no  more  return  im- 
mediately to  the  lobby  that  had  done  her  such 
eloquent  homage  than  she  could  actually  go  to 
the  Bachelors'  dance. 

She  thought  of  allowing  the  cabman  to  reach 
the  very  door  and  then  tell  him  to  drive  on  to  the 
Park,  where  she  could  give  herself  time  to 
think  things  out;  but  when  the  moment  for 
action  arrived  she  decided  it  would  be  easier  as 
well  as  more  dignified  to  dismiss  him  and  take 
another  who  knew  not  whence  she  came.  The 
doorman  handed  her  ceremoniously  to  the  side- 
walk. By  an  instinctive  impulse  of  savoir  faire 
she  gave  him  the  dollar  bill  she  held  ready 
with  which  to  pay  her  public  conveyance,  and 
stepped  forward  toward  the  revolving  door  that 
9  123 


COBWEB 

gave  access  to  the  first  exclusive  function  of  the 
season. 

On  leaving  the  cab  she  became  aware  of  two 
walls  of  curious  faces.  Here  was  a  test  for 
which  she  had  not  prepared  herself.  These 
people  hedged  her  in  and  seemed  to  challenge 
her;  they  seemed  to  expect  of  her  pride,  pomp, 
and  the  right  thing.  Something  within  her 
responded  instantly;  drawing  a  quick  breath,  she 
advanced  with  head  held  high. 

In  the  meantime  the  persisting  feminine  traits 
which  lurk  in  the  blood  of  the  manliest  of  men 
had  been  raising  havoc  with  Mr.  Rittenhouse 
Bourne.  He  had  changed  his  mind  seven  tunes 
during  the  evening  as  to  whether  or  not  he  would 
make  an  attempt  to  banish  care  by  dancing  with 
other  men's  wives  and  sweethearts,  had  finally 
decided  about  ten  o'clock  to  return  to  bed  and 
stay  there,  and  five  minutes  later  had  found 
himself,  to  his  own  genuine  amazement,  uncon- 
sciously donning  his  best  evening  clothes  with 
meticulous  care.  He  took  this  absent-minded 
action  as  a  sign  sent  direct  from  some  heaven 
or  other  for  his  individual  guidance,  and  im- 
mediately his  spirits  began  to  rise.  He  went  to 
the  ball.  He  arrived  immediately  behind  Miss 
Alloway. 

There  was  nothing  about  her  back  that  he  could 
124 


COBWEB 

recognize,  nothing  in  the  high  carriage  of  her 
head  and  shoulders  as  she  entered  the  door  to 
denote  that  she  was  quivering  from  the  crown 
of  her  hair  to  the  soles  of  her  satin-slippered  feet; 
nothing  in  her  bearing  to  show  that  never  before 
had  she  been  so  near  to  a  ballroom  or  come  so 
close  to  displaying  in  public  the  pallor  of  her 
shoulders  and  young  round  arms.  The  rear  view 
of  her  smart  coat  with  its  high  flaring  collar 
merely  told  him  that  he  was  following  a  young 
woman  of  fashion  and  of  most  exceptional  taste 
in  clothes. 

The  animation  which  had  come  to  life  in  the 
girl's  face  at  command  of  an  indomitable  will 
as  she  crossed  the  sidewalk,  froze  to  a  look  of 
dejection  without  terror  as  she  found  herself  in 
the  lobby  which  served  as  anteroom  to  the 
dancing  hall.  In  a  flash  she  saw  the  eyes  of  the 
official  sitting  at  the  ticket  table  pick  her  up 
and  hold  her  for  future  reference.  Her  glance 
caught,  too,  the  first  movement  of  a  flunky  spring- 
ing forward  to  direct  her  to  the  lady's  room. 
Setting  her  teeth  firmly  to  meet  the  ordeal  of  the 
buzz  of  curiosity  which  was  sure  to  arise  behind 
and  before  her  as  she  should  reach  the  sidewalk, 
she  followed  the  revolving  door  around  without 
pausing;  but  in  spite  of  all  she  could  do  in  the 
way  of  resolution,  a  big  round  tear  forced  its 

125 


COBWEB 

way  out  of  one  of  her  widely  staring  eyes  and 
bounded  down  her  cheek.  Out  of  an  agony  of 
shame  she  saw  through  the  glass  panel  of  the  door 
the  astounded  face  of  the  young  man  of  the 
elevator. 

He  followed  her  out;  he  accosted  her  without 
the  slightest  hesitation  and  in  a  masterful  manner 
which  indicated  long  premeditation.  In  a  daze 
she  heard  him  say  for  herself  and  for  the  crowd: 
"  I  beg  you  to  forgive  me.  I'm  sorry  I  was  late." 
She  felt  him  take  lightly  hold  of  her  elbow  and 
pilot  her  once  more  into  the  fateful  door.  With 
her  senses  still  in  a  whirl  she  heard  him  say  to  the 
flunky,  as  he  relieved  himself  of  coat,  hat, 
muffler,  and  stick,  "Madame  will  keep  her 
wrap."  And  to  the  man  dispensing  tickets: 
"A  table  for  two.  If  you  haven't  got  one,  make 
one.  We'll  take  anything  vacant  in  the  mean- 
tune." 

The  next  minute  she  was  seated  and  saying  in 
a  low  voice,  which  broke  almost,  but  not  quite, 
into  a  gasp,  "A  glass  of  water,  please." 

Bourne  stared  at  her  as  he  had  never  before 
stared  at  any  person,  place,  or  thing.  It  was  an 
elemental  stare;  it  devoured  her  as  deliberately, 
as  absolutely,  and  as  finally  as  a  python  swallows 
a  fawn.  What  his  eyes  beheld  they  seemed  to 
consume  definitely  into  himself,  so  that  it  be- 

126 


COBWEB 

came  for  all  time  part  and  parcel  of  his 
being. 

With  head  uptilted  in  the  act  of  drinking,  the 
girl  had  the  appearance  of  looking  down  on  him 
from  beneath  steeply  slanted  eyelids.  The  eyes 
of  the  ugliest  woman  become  beautiful  in  such  a 
pose;  imagine,  then,  the  supernal  appeal  of  those 
of  the  girl  peering  down  darkly  from  beneath 
the  creamy  whiteness  of  unwrinkled,  petallike 
lids  and  measuring  him  with  a  furtive  delibera- 
tion which  was  both  shy  and  bold  and  that 
seemed  to  follow  almost  complacently  the  head- 
long onrush  of  his  unbridled  admiration. 

"You  are  the  most  beautiful  thing,"  said 
Bourne,  gravely,  as  she  put  down  the  glass, 
"that  I  have  ever  seen.  I  say  that  not  as  a 
compliment,  but  in  partial  explanation  of  my 
superficial  rudeness." 

"He  chooses  his  words  well,"  thought  the  girl. 
"Anyone  else  would  have  said  'apparent  rude- 
ness'; they  always  do  in  books." 

"It  isn't  just  your  face  I  have  been  staring  at," 
he  continued.  "It's  the  whole  get-up  of  your 
setting  in  that  perfectly  ripping  thing  which  is 
mostly  velvet  collar,  turns  into  a  fitted  coat  over 
your  shoulders,  and  just  about  the  line  where 
mermaids  begin  to  be  fish  decides  to  become  a  lace 
mantilla  You  are  like  a  glorified  Jack-in- the 

127 


COBWEB 

pulpit.  Everything  about  you  seems  to  have 
been  born  and  to  have  grown  up  together  with 
you  as  though  you  really  were  one  of  God's 
plants." 

The  cynical  platitude  that  the  road  to  a  man's 
organ  of  affection  is  through  his  gastronomic 
center  has  its  counterpart  in  the  assertion  that 
the  way  to  a  woman's  heart  is  through  what  you 
say  about  her  clothes.  True  to  the  metaphor 
which  he  had  invoked,  the  girl  basked  like  a 
flower  in  the  sun  at  the  whole-hearted  extrava- 
gance of  Bourne's  praise.  Just  as  she  had 
divined  a  rotten  core  at  the  first  sound  of  the 
voice  of  the  stranger  who  had  accosted  her  at  the 
theater,  so  now  intuition  told  her  that  here 
she  was  in  the  presence  of  abject  sincerity. 

Her  body,  which  had  been  painfully  tense 
under  the  strain  of  a  thrillingly  terrible  quarter 
of  an  hour,  relaxed;  she  leaned  forward,  thrust 
her  bare  arms  from  the  shelter  of  the  lace  coat, 
rested  her  elbows  on  the  table,  locked  her  hands 
loosely  together,  and  looked  over  them  straight 
into  his  eyes. 

"I  want  you  to  understand,"  she  said,  with  the 
deliberation  which  added  the  crowning  touch  of 
charm  to  her  low-pitched  voice,  "that  I  shall 
never  forget  the  warmth  and  the  wit  of  your 
kindness;  especially  the  wit.  Now  that  you 

128 


COBWEB 

have  saved  my  face  so  generously,  will  you  please 
take  me  out  again,  find  me  a  cab,  and  let  me  go?  " 

A  genuinely  frightened  look  swept  across 
Bourne's  features.  His  eyes  gazed  with  an  avid 
fascination  at  the  paper  pallor  of  the  girl's 
smooth  arms.  They  fulfilled  the  promise  of  the 
blood-tinged  whiteness  of  her  face.  They  led 
the  daring  mind  to  maddening  and  adoring 
vision  of  a  body  as  pale,  pure,  and  as  fleetingly 
held  as  a  ray  of  moonlight.  All  the  component 
parts  of  his  physical  and  mental  being  rose  in  a 
swirl  of  protest  against  her  going  and  fused  into 
an  incandescent  flame  of  clean  desire  which,  once 
denied,  would  leave  him  as  destitute  as  a  burned- 
out  coal.  He  leaned  forward,  held  out  a  trem- 
bling hand  as  though  to  prevent  her  from  rising, 
but  stopped  just  short  of  touching  her. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  "You  can't  go.  You 
must  see  by  my  face  that  you  can't  go.  I  don't 
know  who  you  are.  I  don't  know  why  you 
should  have  wished  to  come  to  this  dance  and, 
wishing  to  come,  I  don't  know  why  ten  thousand 
men  weren't  waiting  to  ask  you;  but  you  are 
here,  and  that  you  should  be  my  guest  is  the 
most  wonderful  thing  that  has  ever  happened. 
I  am  C.  G.  Rittenhouse  Bourne,  commonly 
known  as  Ritt  Bourne.  Your  bank  or  the  hotel 
or  your  florist  or  tailor  can  tell  you  all  about  me. 

129 


COBWEB 

I  haven't  any  mother  or  sister;  all  I  have  is  an 
aunt  who  was  to  have  stayed  on  at  Bar  Harbor, 
but  if  I  wire  to-night  she  can  catch  the  flyer 
to-morrow  and  call  on  you  the  day  after.  I'm  not 
mad;  truly  I'm  not.  Won't  you  give  me  this 
evening  on  faith?" 

The  girl  laughed.  Her  laugh  was  like  a  brook 
breaking  away  from  rocks  that  would  hold  it. 
It  was  free,  unafraid,  and  merry,  yet  low.  It 
had,  nevertheless,  the  peculiar  penetration  of  all 
sounds  which  are  set  in  a  key  different  to  that 
of  the  turmoil  about  them.  People  at  near-by 
tables  paused  in  their  chatter  and  listened  with 
that  wistful  and  smiling  intentness  which  is  the 
wayfarer'sinvariable  tribute  to  the  appealing  note 
of  the  hidden  wood  thrush.  Then,  remembering 
where  they  were,  their  faces  hardened.  They 
looked  around  and,  having  once  looked,  stared. 
Heads  gathered  together  and  tongues  began  to 
murmur. 

Bourne  did  not  join  in  the  girl's  laughter; 
he  was  too  much  in  earnest;  too  much  afraid 
and  anxious  for  her  answer.  Men,  especially 
nice  ones,  are  always  slow  to  believe  how  will- 
ingly woman  gives;  the  more  consuming  their 
desire,  the  more  do  they  taper  their  demands, 
like  despairing  beggars  asking  only  for  the  small 
change  in  the  pockets  of  a  goddess.  To  Bourne 

130 


COBWEB 

it  seemed  the  height  of  daring  that  he  should  ask 
this  vision,  who  in  reality  was  a  very  human 
person  and  who  longed  very  humanly  to  stay 
with  him,  to  grant  him  the  divine  largess  of  an 
hour  or  two. 

"Will  you  stay?"  he  asked,  his  burning  eyes 
upon  her  face. 

She  looked  at  him,  the  ageless  smile  of  conquer- 
ing woman  on  her  young  lips,  hesitated  for  a 
teasing  moment,  and  then  answered,  "I  will 
stay." 

She  raised  her  hands,  slipped  the  coat  from  her 
shoulders,  and  let  it  fall  across  the  back  of  her 
chair.  She  sat  fully  revealed  in  a  frock  of  old 
gold.  The  delicate  curves  and  hollows  of  her 
shoulders,  the  smooth  column  of  her  neck,  the 
faint  cupping  of  her  adolescent  breasts  pro- 
claimed her  youth,  and  by  the  all  but  invisible 
pulsations  of  her  breathing  declared  to  the 
incredulous  eye  that  she  was  indeed  flesh  and 
blood  and  no  dream  snared  in  ivory  by  the  art 
of  the  master  sculptor.  Save  for  the  black 
flash  of  the  onyx  comb,  she  wore  no  adornment. 

A  long  but  happy  silence  followed  her  ac- 
quiescence to  Bourne's  demand.  Finally  he 
asked  her,  formally,  " Shall  we  dance  this?" 

"I  would  like  to,"  said  the  girl,  her  eyes 
wandering  for  the  first  time  around  the  room  and 

131 


COBWEB 

following  with  eager  interest  the  movements  of 
the  dancers  on  the  floor,  "but  I  cannot.  I  have 
never  danced." 

Bourne  hid  his  amazement  at  such  a  statement 
and  studied  her  with  a  musing  look  in  his  gaze. 
Never  before  had  he  been  so  happy  in  idleness, 
so  rocked  in  contentment,  so  held  by  the  myriad 
mysteries  which  rise  to  confront  the  mind 
brought  face  to  face  with  unexpected  depths 
amid  the  usual  shallows  of  the  human  soul.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  no  fate  could  be  more 
rounded,  more  satisfying,  than  to  remain  seated 
forever  in  ignorance  before  the  lovely,  limitless 
question  of  this  beautiful  unknown  and  weave 
about  her  breathing  but  unrevealing  presence  a 
romance  of  perfection  and  eternal  allure. 

"Will  you  do  me  a  favor?"  she  asked. 

"I  will,"  he  answered,  without  reservation. 

"You  promise  truly?" 

"I  promise  truly,"  he  repeated. 

"Tell  me  exactly  what  you  were  thinking. 
You  know  what  I  mean — while  you  were  looking 
at  me  just  now." 

Bourne  nodded  and  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment; 
then  he  said:  "It  isn't  easy  to  put  into  words, 
but  I'll  try.  I  was  thinking  of  the  holding  power 
of  mystery.  I  was  wondering  whether  I  would 
not  be  a  fool  ever  to  want  to  know  the  answer 

132 


COBWEB 

to  all  the  swarming  little  questions  about  you 
that  are  stinging  my  mind  into  an  ecstasy  of  life. 
Ever  since  I  first  saw  you  on  that  day  we  both 
remember,  your  face  has  never  left  me.  It 
caught  me  and  has  held  me,  because  of  the 
unsolved  problem  of  a  single  tear.  I  was  won- 
dering, too,  if  a  lot  of  the  inconstancies  of  one's 
friends  couldn't  be  traced  to  revelations  so  com- 
plete that  they  sweep  the  platter  of  imagination 
clean.  Finally,  I  was  afraid  the  little  facts  of 
you  might  tarnish  the  glorious  truth  of  you  as  I 
see  it  now.  That  is  all  and  perhaps  a  little  more 
than  I  was  thinking.  It  sounds  a  bit  strained. 
Do  you  think  you  have  understood?" 

The  girl  nodded.  "I  think  I  have,"  she  said. 
Her  brows  drew  into  the  mere  suggestion  of  a 
frown.  "Mystery!"  she  murmured,  half  to  her- 
self; then  a  gleam,  half  mischievous,  half  serious, 
lit  up  her  eyes.  "Would  you  like  to  play  a  game 
with  me?"  she  asked. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Bourne. 

"We'll  pretend,"  she  said.  "We'll  pretend 
that  I  have  no  past  whatever,  that  I  was  born 
full-grown  to-day,  to-night.  We'll  agree  that 
you  shall  ask  me  no  questions  and  that  you  will 
learn  what  I  am  only  by  what  I  am.  Will  you 
play  that  game?" 

"I  will,"  said  Bourne,  "on  one  condition." 
133 


COBWEB 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  in  her  turn. 

"That  we  are  to  be  together  every  moment," 
said  Bourne,  with  the  calm  intensity  of  a  mad- 
man, "every  moment  of  the  hour,  every  day  of 
the  year,  all  the  years  of  our  life." 

The  smile  left  the  girl's  lips,  her  fingers 
trembled,  her  eyes  grew  soft  to  a  look  of  tender 
pleading. 

"Oh!"  she  begged,  "please  don't!  Please 
really  play.  Please  smile.  Please  laugh  for  a 
little  while— first." 

Bourne  caught  his  breath  at  the  hearing  of 
that  half -spoken  promise.  He  did  smile;  he 
reached  out  and  actually  touched  her  hand. 
"You  are  alive!"  he  said,  softly.  "Your  hand 
is  warm.  When  you  turn  it  I  can  see  the  pink 
of  the  palm.  If  you  were  truly  made  of  marble, 
the  palm  of  your  hand  wouldn't  be  pink;  it 
would  be  white  like  the  rest  of  your  body.  I 
love  you  because  there  is  blood  in  your  veins; 
because  if  I  should  ever  dare  to  take  you  in  my 
arms  your  heart  would  beat  and  hammer  against 
my  side.  Do  you  like  me  a  little?  Do  you  love 
me?" 

"I  like  you  very  much,"  said  the  girl;  and 
added,  with  trembling  lips,  "I  think  perhaps  I 
shall  love  you  after  a  long  while." 

It  was  the  old,  old  plea  of  woman  begging  not 
134 


COBWEB 

to  be  rushed,  craving  less  the  final  joy  of  sur- 
rendering to  assault  than  the  preliminary  give 
and  take  of  a  thousand  little  shocks  of  mounting 
pleasure,  each  one  of  them  leading  up  to  that 
maddeningly  sweet  estate  known  only  to  the 
blessed — the  dream-drenched  domain  of  tri- 
umphant love. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  touching  her  hand  again 
very  lightly,  "I  will  play  any  game  in  the  world 
you  wish  me  to  play,  only  you  must  marry  me 
first.  It's  too  late  to-night,  but  I'm  sure  we 
could  arrange  it  to-morrow." 

Again  the  girl  laughed  that  laugh  of  the  sud- 
denly loosed  brook.  Her  eyes  sobered;  she 
turned  her  hand  and  pressed  his  fingers  with  a 
tender,  fleeting  touch. 

"Please!"  she  pleaded.  "Do  not  frighten 
me,  I  beg  you." 


Chapter  Eight 

THE  girl  spoke  with  genuine  trepidation,  but 
not  for  any  bodily  harm  that  might  befall  her. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  new  possession,  a  feeling 
which  filled  her  heart  as  one  may  fill  a  cup  to 
the  very  brim  and  of  which  she  would  have  no 
single  drop  spilled  by  the  striking  of  a  jarring 
note.  Her  eyes  widened  and  for  a  moment  lost 
their  softness;  they  stared  at  Bourne's  tense  face, 
across  which  emotions  were  playing  as  openly 
and  as  unashamed  as  shadows  in  the  sun,  and 
she  knew  that  above  all  things  she  wished  to  bind 
him  beyond  the  grip  of  any  passing  fancy. 

Bourne  never  imagined  that  in  the  instant 
between  her  measuring  gravity  and  her  gleaming 
transfiguration  she  had  come  to  one  of  those 
momentous  decisions  which  only  the  highly 
imaginative  can  conceive  and  then  pursue  with 
unwearying  doggedness.  The  hunter  in  woman 
is  necessarily  more  highly  developed  and  more 
subtle  than  the  hunter  in  man.  In  the  course 
of  their  short  contact  he  had  given  her  but  one 
clew  on  which  to  work,  and  now  she  pounced 
upon  it  with  unerring  intuition.  He  had  spoken 
of  the  holding  power  of  mystery. 

"You  are  going  to  play  my  game,"  she  said, 
136 


COBWEB 

softly.  "You  and  I,  we  are  two  people  who 
were  born  to-day.  If  you  have  really  lived  be- 
fore, I  don't  want  to  know  about  it.  I'll  ask  no 
one  about  it;  and  as  for  me,  I  am  a  girl  given 
to  the  world  just  as  I  stand,  all  dressed  and 
grown  up  like  the  sweet  dolls  in  the  shops.  I  am 
what  I  am  and  from  that  alone  you  are  to  learn. 
You  may  read  me  like  a  book  of  stories  written 
by  an  unseen  and  unknown  hand,  but  you  are 
never  to  ask  this  or  that  right  out.  Promise. 
Will  you  promise?" 

"To  hear  your  voice,"  said  Bourne,  "just  to  go 
on  hearing  your  voice,  I  will  promise  anything. 
I  have  seen  lovely  girls  in  this  town  before;  I 
have  asked  to  be  presented  to  them  and  have 
stood  entranced  by  the  softness  of  everything 
about  them — their  eyes,  the  texture  of  their 
skin,  their  lips,  and  the  things  they  wear;  and 
then  they  have  spoken  and  spoiled  it  all.  When 
we  become  a  truthful  race  we  will  seldom  say 
to  our  girls,  'Did  you  speak?'  but  always,  'Did 
you  squeak? ' ' 

The  girl  turned  her  head  in  a  birdlike  move- 
ment of  interest  and  appreciation. 

"I  like  to  talk  to  you,"  she  said,  smiling 
genuinely.  "I  have  dreamed  of  a  man  who 
should  understand  all  that  one  said  and  of  an- 
other who  could  say  things,  and  I've  balanced 

137 


COBWEB 

the  first  against  the  second  and  puzzled  over 
which  to  choose.  How  wonderful  it  would  be  if 
you  should  be  both  of  them!" 

"Wouldn't  it?"  said  Bourne,  eagerly. 

"You  like  my  voice,"  continued  the  girl. 
"I'm  glad  you  like  it,  because  sounds  are  so 
important.  They  have  no  theory  in  spite  of 
all  the  rules  of  harmony.  Some  of  them  en- 
chant us,  some  strike  terror  to  the  heart,  and 
some  are  just  grim,  or  comical,  or  perhaps 
weird,  like  the  shuff-shuff-shuffling  of  feet  in 
the  Ouvidor  in  Rio.  It's  exotic;  you  get  the 
truth  of  it  slowly;  you  are  startled;  then  you 
know  all  of  a  sudden  why  it  is.  Because  there 
are  no  carriages,  no  horses,  no  wheels  in  that  busy 
street." 

"Rio!"  exclaimed  Bourne,  as  he  began  to  ask 
a  question  and  then  arrested  the  words  on  the 
tip  of  his  tongue,  halted  by  a  look  of  flashing 
admonition  in  the  girl's  grave  eyes.  He  smiled. 
"Don't  be  angry,"  he  begged.  "I  didn't,  after 
all." 

"No,  but  you  were  going  to,"  said  the  girl, 
accusingly. 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment  and  then 
Bourne  came  out  of  his  reverie  with  a  sudden 
exclamation. 

"Are  you  always  going  to  be  so  clever?"  he 
138 


COBWEB 

cried.  "You've  given  me  the  answer  to  a  faint 
foolish  question  that  has  hung  in  my  mind  for 
six  years;  the  sound  of  the  clogs,  clog-clogging 
in  the  Street  of  the  Theaters  in  Kyoto.  I 
couldn't  understand  why  it  has  puzzled  me  and 
would  never  be  forgotten.  It's  the  same  reason 
as  the  Ouvidor.  You  have  thought  it  all 
out." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  pensively.  "You  are 
right.  Those  two  wheelless  sounds  are  bloodless 
relations."  She  glanced  up  at  him  wonderingly. 
"Think  of  our  both  having  listened  to  the  dull 
clatter  of  the  getas  in  the  Street  of  the  Theaters 
in  Kyoto,  perhaps  on  the  same  night!" 

Bourne's  face  tensed  suddenly;  he  looked  at  her 
shrewdly,  but  made  no  comment.  Instead  he 
said:  "I,  too,  hold  the  recollection  of  sounds 
that  haunt  me  still.  The  two  notes  of  the  blind 
masseurs  of  Yokohama,  all  night  long;  that's  a 
memory  of  the  fitful  sleeper,  and  so  is  the  un- 
forgetable  clanking  tap  of  the  watchmen  with 
their  staffs  loaded  with  metal  washers." 

The  girl  nodded  her  head  dreamily.  "I  love 
the  old  capitals,"  she  continued,  presently,  with, 
a  distant  look  in  her  eyes.  "Nara,  with  its 
funny  big  Daibutsu  like  a  monstrous  toy,  and 
old  Kyoto — so  very,  very  old,  so  interminable 
around  its  palaces  of  mystery,  so  filthy,  so  stud- 
io 139 


COBWEB 

ded  with  temples,  so  narrow  in  detail  and  so 
broad  to  the  eye  from  Mount  Hiei-zan.  Some- 
thing hurts  here,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on 
her  breast,  "when  I  think  of  the  cherry  blossoms 
of  Arashi-yama!" 

"You  love  Japan?"  asked  Bourne,  ten- 
tatively. 

She  considered  for  a  moment.  He  could  not 
tell  whether  she  paused  to  weigh  the  question 
as  a  question,  or  whether  it  was  the  answer  itself 
that  required  thought.  "Yes,  I  love  it,"  she 
said,  finally,  "but  with  a  tolerance." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  asked  Bourne, 
quickly,  carried  away  by  a  keen  interest  which 
for  an  instant  forgot  her  as  a  person  and  regarded 
her  merely  as  a  fascinating  puzzle. 

"I  mean  that  I  love  Japan  as  I  love  an  echo. 
The  Japanese — what  they  are,  what  they  have, 
all  the  fantastic  imagery  of  their  arts,  handi- 
crafts, and  lore — are  stolen  from  the  great 
source." 

"The  great  source?  "  repeated  Bourne,  vaguely. 

The  girl  nodded  emphatically;  her  eyes  grew 
luminous.  "From  the  Middle  Kingdom,"  she 
murmured.  "Who  of  us  that  has  ridden  on  its 
great  rivers  does  not  know  China  for  the  cradle 
of  human  woe,  draped  and  veiled  in  dreams  of 
bliss.  Ponderous  land,  forever  pursuing  happi- 

140 


COBWEB 

ness  methodically,  like  a  clumsy  child  intent  on 
catching  a  butterfly!" 

He  stared  at  her,  utterly  bewildered.  His 
brain  was  in  a  whirl.  Before  his  dazzled  eyes 
passed  a  scintillating  kaleidoscope  through  whose 
prisms  he  caught  confused  glimpses  of  this  fresh 
young  girl  as  a  manifestation  of  the  spirit  of 
man's  aspiration  toward  perfection,  winging  from 
far-away  places,  fugitive  as  a  wraith  of  mist, 
eternal  as  the  haunting  fugue  of  woman  triumph- 
ant, striking  once  in  every  aeon,  but  never  twice 
in  the  same  age. 

He  lost  all  sense  of  values  and  of  the  present. 
As  though  her  perfumed  breath  had  been  a  subtle 
drug,  his  mind  floated  up  and  away  from  the 
anchorage  of  reason.  Was  there  not,  he  asked 
himself,  a  legend  of  the  essence  of  beauty  as  an 
epochal  visitor  to  human  flesh?  Could  it  not 
be  that  he,  Ritt  Bourne  of  the  city  of  New  York, 
had  been  chosen  as  one  of  those  widely  spaced 
mortals  to  whom  have  been  granted  the  tangible 
miracle  by  which  hope  lives,  the  incarnation  of 
one's  ultimate  vision?  He  drew  himself  together 
with  a  deep,  quivering  breath  and  forced  himself 
to  smile. 

' '  China ! "  he  murmured.  ' '  Father  of  pleasure 
and  pain,  of  art,  science,  and  invention  and  queen 
mother  to  the  Five  Blessings  of  the  heart's  desire ! " 

141 


COBWEB 

A  look  of  astonishment  and  appreciation  sprang 
alight  in  the  girl's  face;  then  she  leaned  forward 
and  bowed  her  head  as  though  to  lay  the  heaped 
treasure  of  its  gold  upon  an  altar.  "Ah!"  she 
breathed,  "you  can  understand!"  She  raised 
her  eyes  as  if  to  look  on  high.  "Si  Wang-Mu!" 
she  whispered,  a  tender  smile  drawing  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  and  by  that  human  touch  alone 
holding  her  to  earth.  "Can  you  see  her  so  high 
upon  Mount  Kw'en  Lun  enthroned  above  her 
fields  of  sesamum  in  the  gardens  of  coriander 
amid  the  twelve  jeweled  towers  which  stand  by 
the  Lake  of  Gems,  divine  source  of  the  four  great 
rivers?  To-morrow,  to-day,  and  for  a  thousand 
thousand  yesterdays  she  sits  among  her  fairy 
legions  by  the  forests  of  chrysophrase  and  the 
tree  of  life,  the  great  tree  of  jade." 

She  brought  down  her  gaze  to  his  and  met  it 
frankly,  daringly.  He  stared  into  the  depths 
of  her  dark-brown  eyes  until  the  freckles  of  gold 
held  there  in  lucent  suspension  seemed  to 
twinkle  at  him  from  a  laughing  heaven. 

"Go  on,"  he  demanded,  with  an  answering 
laugh.  "I  dare  you  to  go  on!  Tell  me  of  the 
four  great  rivers — the  blue,  the  white,  the  red, 
and  the  black." 

"Ah  no,"  said  the  girl,  shaking  her  head  and 
laughing  with  him.  "You  know  too  much. 

142 


COBWEB 

You  might  think  that  I  had  indeed  stood  beneath 
the  peach  tree  of  the  genii  and  eaten  of  the  fruit 
of  immortality.  You  would  be  afraid." 

"It  is  the  very  thing  that  I  have  been  think- 
ing," said  Bourne,  quite  gravely.  "Shall  I  be 
afraid?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  quickly,  a  startled  look  in 
her  eyes.  "Of  all  the  emotions,  it  seems  to  me 
that  fear  is  the  basest.  I  can't  imagine  loving 
anyone  who  frightened  me.  I — I  do  not  wish 
you  to  be  afraid." 

Bourne  looked  at  her  so  steadily  and  so  mean- 
ingly that  he  forced  her  to  go  back  in  her  mind 
over  the  words  she  had  just  spoken  with  child- 
like simplicity.  The  faint  color  in  her  pale 
cheeks  deepened,  but  in  spite  of  the  smile  which 
was  slowly  gathering  on  his  lips  she  made  no 
effort  to  retract. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  he  asked  at  length. 
"Do  you  truly  wish  me  to  love  you?" 

She  regarded  him  steadily,  but  made  no 
answer;  instead  she  continued  with  her  own 
thoughts. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  will  never  again  enter 
the  Hong-kew  Market  at  Shanghai?"  she  asked. 
"Because  of  a  beggar — an  ordinary  member  of 
the  guild,  I  suppose,  but  the  first  I  ever  saw. 
He  was  lying  doubled  at  the  knees  and  hips, 

143 


COBWEB 

his  head  buried  in  the  dust  of  the  most  crowded 
of  the  market's  thoroughfares.  People  stepped 
over  and  around  him.  He  never  moved;  never 
looked  up.  His  rags  and  his  hair  were  matted 
filth,  his  limbs  were  incredibly  thin,  and  his  nails 
had  grown  out  and  curved  until  their  tips  were 
imbedded  in  the  palms  of  his  hands.  He  was 
gray  like  vermin;  a  monstrous,  unwinking  toad. 
Have  I  made  you  see  him?  He  frightened  me. 
I  didn't  feel  pity;  I  hated  him  and  the  Hong-kew 
Market." 

Bourne  was  amazed  at  the  suppressed  ve- 
hemence of  her  speech;  its  intensity  swept  him 
away  as  though  he  were  carried  by  the  strength 
of  her  recollections  to  a  share  in  the  thing  her 
eyes  had  seen.  He  forgot  the  crowded  encircling 
tables,  the  thickly  swaying  dancers,  and  the 
syncopated  music.  The  sights,  sounds,  and  even 
the  smells  of  China  assailed  him.  He  remem- 
bered how  he  had  jeered  at  them  in  the  callow 
days  of  his  only  complete  swing  around  the 
world  and  perceived  that  each  day,  each  year, 
and  to-night  more  than  ever  before,  they  jeered 
back  at  him,  intrenched  within  the  lasting 
stronghold  of  an  indelible  impression.  He  real- 
ized quite  suddenly  that  things  Chinese  had 
haunted  him  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  themselves. 

His  mind,  leaping  to  meet  the  girl's  shrewd 
144 


COBWEB 

discovery  of  so  unique  a  national  pastime  as  the 
practical  pursuit  of  happiness,  began  to  see  in  the 
art,  industry,  and  philosophy  of  the  Middle 
Kingdom  a  pragmatic  strain  bowing  to  symbols, 
but  not  to  mysticism,  and  he  wondered  that  never 
before  had  he  remarked  this  popular  marriage  of 
common  sense  to  idealism. 

Noticing  his  withdrawal,  the  girl  touched  his 
arm  to  draw  his  attention  and  said:  "I'm  sorry 
I  told  you  about  the  beggar.  I  shall  never  again 
describe  anything  ugly  to  you,  never.  It  is 
wrong  to  say, '  Look,  did  you  ever  see  anything  so 
ugly?'  when  there  are  so  many  beauties  which 
the  tongue  has  never  told." 

"  Would  you  call  China  a  great  source  of 
beauty?"  asked  Bourne,  speculatively,  hard  put 
to  it  to  pick  a  question  devoid  of  personal 
implication. 

The  girl  did  not  hurry  to  answer  him  and  he 
did  not  press  her. 

"She  has  one  source  of  supernal  beauty,"  she 
said,  at  length.  "King-te-ching  has  seen  genera- 
tions come  and  go  between  each  of  its  deaths 
and  resurrections.  It  has  passed  away  and  been 
born  again,  measuring  the  years  of  its  lives  by 
dynasties.  The  reigns  of  forgotten  monarchs 
are  illustrious  or  despised  according  to  the  thin 
stream  of  pottery  which  they  caused  to  flow 

145 


COBWEB 

from  its  three  thousand  furnaces.  Have  you 
never  seen  them  at  night,  setting  the  plain  on 
fire?  To  come  out  upon  the  hills  and  catch  sight 
of  the  level  sea  of  flame — that's  an  hour  of  beauty. 
And  then  to  climb  down  and  on  and  on  until 
the  lake  of  fire  springs  up  and  around  you, 
painting  the  heavens  and  the  myriad  hovels 
with  an  impartial  brush!  No  one  knows  why 
the  great  city  of  artisans  is  perched  along  the 
desert  flat  at  the  fork  of  the  rivers,  miles  and 
miles  away  from  the  lodes  of  clay  and  of  ore  which 
are  its  life's  blood,  but  I  think  it  was  by  a 
special  dispensation  of  those  gods  who  attend 
to  linking  the  base  with  the  sublime." 

Bourne  frowned  in  concentration  and  began 
hesitatingly,  and  then  with  a  surer  voice,  to 
quote: 

"And  birdlike  poise  on  balanced  wing 
Above  the  town  of  King-te-ching, 
A  burning  town  or  seeming  so — 
Three  thousand  furnaces  that  glow 
Incessantly,  and  fill  the  air 

With  smoke  uprising,  gyre  on  gyre, 
And  painted  by  the  livid  glare 

Of  jets  and  flashes  of  red  fire." 

At  his  first  words  his  companion  eyed  him 
narrowly  as  though  striving  to  find  some  motive 
lurking  behind  the  recitation  of  the  apt  verses, 

146 


COBWEB 

but  by  the  time  he  had  finished  she  was  reassured. 
She  nodded  her  head  appreciatively  and  let  her 
hand  fall  open  upon  the  table. 

"Smells;  narrow,  filthy  alleys;  miserable 
crowding  hovels,"  she  continued;  "swarming 
transients,  distrustful  habitues;  miles  of  dust, 
mud,  and  stagnant  pools,  but  above,  the  clean 
flame  of  fire;  and  in  every  land  on  the  face  of  the 
globe  where  men  hoard  treasure,  the  enduring 
flowers  of  the  dark  travail.  To  be  beautiful  and 
fixed  is  something,  but  to  so  spread  delight  to  the 
eye  that  four  hundred  years  ago  a  sultan  of 
Egypt  could  do  Lorenzo,  de  Medici  no  greater 
honor  than  to  send  him  a  few  pieces  of  celadon, 
that's  to  be  truly  a  source  of  beauty,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is,  indeed,"  said  Bourne,  and  ventured 
another  question:  "What  Chinese  porcelain  do 
you  think  the  most  wonderful?  Which  do  you 
love  the  best?" 

"The  most  wonderful!"  she  cried,  despairingly, 
and  threw  out  both  hands  in  an  entrancing  ges- 
ture of  disclosure.  "Look  at  me,"  she  said. 
"I'm  not  the  seven  books  of  wisdom  nor  even 
the  British  Encyclopaedia.  I'm  just  a  girl." 

Bourne  stared  at  her  as  though  he  were  dis- 
covering her  anew.  His  mind  raced  back  from 
its  pilgrimage  to  a  distant  shrine  of  beauty,  and 
his  eyes  devoured  her  lovely  face  and  arms  and 

147 


COBWEB 

neck  with  an  avidity  which  would  have  been 
comical  had  it  been  less  sincere.  His  thoughts 
were  written  across  his  features.  He  was  trying 
to  persuade  himself  that  this  fresh  young  person 
who  had  touched  with  a  fairy  wand  all  his  half- 
dormant  centers  of  emotion  and  set  tingling  the 
faculties  of  interest  and  enthusiasm  which  linger 
at  the  crossways  of  youth,  was  verily  flesh  and 
flowing  blood. 

"Why  worry,"  he  asked,  wonderingly,  "about 
blanc  de  Chine,  crackle,  under  and  over  glaze, 
Nanking,  Canton,  or  the  famille  verte  when  you 
are  here,  and  alive?  " 

The  tinge  in  her  cheeks  deepened  under  his 
frank,  unwavering  gaze,  but,  as  is  the  way  of 
woman  when  she  sees  the  object  of  her  pursuit 
standing  at  her  mercy  and  awaiting  eagerly  the 
coup  de  grdce,  she  swerved  as  though  with  a 
deliberate  effort  to  elude  the  direct  contact  of 
too  sudden  personalities  and  resumed  the  in- 
tangible quality  of  a  dreamer  at  large. 

"You  asked  me  which  I  love  the  best,  didn't 
you?"  she  reminded  him.  "I  love  the  whole, 
the  self-colored  pieces.  Listen!  Listen  to  the 
poem  of  their  names.  Sea  green,  pea  green,  and 
apple  green — so  soft,  the  tenderest,  deepest  rest 
for  the  eye  that  art  has  ever  formed.  Then  the 
blues — the  blue  of  the  turquoise,  royal  blue, 

148 


COBWEB 

mazarine  blue,  and,  last,  most  unfathomable,  the 
blue  of  the  midnight  sky.  I  mustn't  forget  the 
regal,  defiant  reds.  Sang  de  boeuf,  king  of  colors, 
mule's  blood,  pigeon's  blood,  ruby,  pink,  and 
coral.  After  them  come  the  yellows — lemon, 
imperial,  mustard,  and  straw.  But,  dearest  to 
me  of  all,  clair  de  lune  for  its  lovely  name;  and 
peach  bloom  because  it  was  a  child  of  no  man's 
fancy,  but  came  to  him  like  a  flower  of  chance 
carried  on  the  bosom  of  a  strayed  puff  of  air. 
But  that  is  not  quite  true.  I  am  ungenerous  if  I 
don't  tell  you  that  I  love  peach  bloom  because 
it  is  my  foster  mother,  because  it  saved  me  from 
poverty,  fed  me,  clothed  me  in  silk  and  velvet 
and  satin." 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  demanded 
Bourne. 

For  an  instant  the  girl  appeared  to  be  startled, 
then  she  seemed  to  take  a  fresh  grip  on  some 
obscure  determination  and  met  his  puzzled  eyes 
with  an  assured  smile. 

"Shall  I  tell  you?"  she  replied.  "Shall  I.  tell 
you  of  the  Alloway  vase?" 

"If  you  don't  now,"  replied  Bourne,  solemnly, 
"I  shall  die." 

She  sat  for  a  moment  in  thought,  her  head 
drooping  forward;  then  she  raised  it  and  gazed 
through  and  beyond  him.  "Imagine,  if  you 


COBWEB 

can,"  she  commenced,  "one  of  the  indiscriminate, 
straggling,  unwalled  towns  on  the  banks  of  the 
Yangtse;  wander  through  the  maze  of  the 
tumbled  market  which  stretches  its  disorder  to 
the  river's  edge;  dodge  the  stalls  with  their  huge 
bowls  and  smells  of  messy  foods;  step  over 
baskets,  produce,  and  squatting  venders.  Then 
stare  at  the  craft — the  sampans,  river  scows, 
and  houseboats — until  you  find  one  particularly 
battered  and  sun-dried,  with  its  snub  nose  buried 
in  the  mud  of  the  bank.  It  is  a  glaring  day; 
a  hot  day.  Do  you  see  it?  Are  you  far,  far 
away?" 

Bourne  nodded  his  head.  "I  am  there,"  he 
said. 

"If  you  are  really  there,"  she  continued,  "so 
many  years  ago,  you  can  see  a  man  step  off  the 
weather-beaten  houseboat  holding  a  little  girl  by 
the  hand.  He  looks  tall  because  he  is  so  thin, 
but  he  isn't  very  tall.  Under  the  brim  of  his 
helmet  you  can  see  nice  eyes,  but  the  light  in 
them  is  asleep.  He  wears  a  beard  that  is  turning 
gray  and  a  drooping  mustache  with  a  fine  sweep 
to  it.  He  hangs  his  head  when  he  walks,  as 
though  he  were  thinking  and  thinking  where 
next  to  put  his  foot.  The  little  girl  has  tre- 
mendously long  legs  and  big  eyes;  she  is  all 
legs  and  eyes;  her  legs  swallow  her  body  and 

150 


COBWEB 

her  eyes  eat  up  her  face  so  that  there's  nothing 
to  see  of  it  except  that  it  is  pale,  like  the  face 
of  the  moon.  She  is  glad  enough  to  get  off  the 
boat;  she  skips  as  she  walks.  The  man  leads 
her  to  a  corner  of  the  market  and  there  they 
stand  to  stare  and  be  stared  at. 

"  They  have  come  to  buy  rice  and  fish,  but  they 
are  not  in  a  hurry.  The  man  calls  her  'Clair- 
de-lune.'  He  says,  '  Clair-de-lune,  by  the  grace 
of  God  and  no  stomach  for  food,  we'll  just  get 
down  to  Shanghai  with  a  couple  of  hundred 
dollars  Mex  to  bless  ourselves  with.'  And  then, 
quite  suddenly,  he  straightens  and  his  eyes  blaze 
into  life.  He  drops  the  little  girl's  hand,  starts 
to  run  toward  a  coolie  who  is  trotting  by,  con- 
trols himself,  walks  after  the  coolie  with  a  swift, 
easy  stride  and  taps  him  on  the  shoulder.  Do 
you  see  the  coolie?" 

" Not  very  clearly,"  answered  Bourne.  "Show 
him  to  me." 

"He  was  just  the  most  ordinary  kind  of  a 
coolie,"  continued  the  girl.  "He  had  on  one  of 
those  round  inverted  basket  hats,  very  old; 
he  wore  a  dirty  smock  which  had  been  white 
ages  before,  and  straw  sandals  bound  to  his  feet. 
He  was  trotting  along,  holding  his  hand  a  little 
ahead  of  his  body,  and  dangling  from  one  finger 
of  it  by  a  loop  was  some  kind  of  filthy  bottle 

151 


COBWEB 

with  a  cord  of  woven  straw  bound  around  its 
long  slim  neck.  He  looked  to  the  little  girl  as 
if  he  had  come  to  the  market  for  just  one  thing — 
ten  cash  worth  of  oil." 

"I  see  him  now,"  said  Bourne,  quickly, 
answering  her  questioning  pause. 

"When  the  white  man  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  began  to  speak,"  she  continued, 
"he  stopped  with  a  vague  stare  on  his  face  as 
though  he  was  afraid  he  might  forget  about  the 
oil.  He  listened,  looked  down  at  the  bottle, 
shook  his  head  violently,  and  started  to  go  on. 
He  would  not  sell  the  bottle.  Then  the  white 
man  called  out,  'One  hundred  taels,  foolish  one, 
dishonorable  son  of  worthy  ancestors.'  At  the 
sound  of  'one  hundred  taels'  the  coolie's  eyes 
opened  suddenly  so  wide  that  they  certainly 
pained  him;  he  gasped  and  presently  held  out  a 
trembling  claw  of  a  hand.  The  white  man 
dragged  many  Mexican  dollars  from  his  pockets, 
almost  all  the  Mexican  dollars  he  had  in  the  world. 
The  coolie  could  not  count  them;  ten  or  fifty, 
they  would  have  been  the  same  to  him,  for  never 
before  had  his  sensible  dreams  prayed  for  so 
great  an  amount  of  wealth.  He  gave  the  white 
man  the  bottle,  which  was  so  incrusted  in  filth 
that  one  could  scarcely  notice  how  sweetly  it  was 
shaped,  and  stood  staring  at  the  foreign  devil, 

152 


COBWEB 

calling  to  the  little  girl  to  come  quickly  and 
hastening  away  toward  the  river's  edge.  You 
have  begun  to  guess." 

"No,  no,"  said  Bourne.  "I  will  guess  noth- 
ing. Tell  me." 

"The  man  shouted  for  the  boatmen,"  she  con- 
tinued. "He  gathered  them  quickly,  for  they 
had  not  had  time  to  scatter  far.  With  his  re- 
maining change  he  bought  rice  from  the  nearest 
stall;  he  helped  to  ease  the  houseboat  from  the 
muddy  bank.  He  talked  suggestively  to  the 
crew  of  the  wonders  of  Shanghai;  of  how  swift 
was  the  journey  when  heart  and  current  travel 
together.  Then  he  drew  the  little  girl  into  the 
rude  shelter  at  the  stern,  closed  carefully  the 
mat  door,  set  the  jar  upon  the  table,  sank  to  a 
seat  on  a  stool  before  it,  and  looked  at  it  almost 
wildly,  a  blaze  of  light  in  his  eyes  and  his  thin 
hands  hooked  together  to  keep  them  from 
trembling. 

"'Clair-de-lune,'  he  said,  presently,  'fetch  a 
pail  of  hot  water  as  though  you  were  to  bathe; 
I  do  not  wish  Ting-foo  to  bring  it.' 

"The  little  girl  obeyed;  she  was  very  excited. 
She  fetched  the  hot  water  and  her  best  knitted 
washcloth,  badly  unraveled  at  one  corner.  The 
man  dipped  the  cloth  and,  taking  up  the  bottle 
very  tenderly,  began  to  wash  it.  As  soon  as  he 

153 


COBWEB 

had  cleaned  a  shining  little  spot  he  set  the  jar 
down  again  and  sighed  and  smiled  and  leaned 
over  to  pat  the  girl  with  the  point  of  his  beard — 
a  way  he  had  when  his  hands  were  soiled. 

"'Draw  up  your  stool,  little  Clair-de-lune/ 
he  said.  'Sit  close  to  me  and  watch  the  rising 
of  the  sun  of  happiness.' 

"Because  the  small  jar  smelled  frightfully  not 
only  outside,  but  in,  he  dipped  it  into  the  hot 
water,  filled  it,  rinsed  it  again  and  again,  and 
then  put  it  to  soak.  But  he  was  too  impatient 
to  let  it  lie  for  long,  and  presently  he  plunged 
his  hand  to  the  bottom  of  the  pail  and  fetched 
it  out  again.  The  water  was  very  hot;  it 
stained  his  hand  and  wrist  a  fiery  red,  but  he  did 
not  mind.  He  began  to  rub  the  bottle  again. 
The  filth  wrinkled  and  came  off  in  flakes  and 
broad  smudges.  The  vase  seemed  to  awake 
from  a  black  sleep  as  the  man's  eyes  had  awak- 
ened. It  began  to  smile.  Its  smile  was  like 
red  lips,  incredibly  soft  and  deep  with  im- 
prisoned color. 

"'Shut  your  eyes,  Clair-de-lune,'  whispered 
the  man.  '  Shut  your  eyes  tightly.' 

"The  little  girl  closed  her  eyes  with  all  the 
force  of  her  eyelids;  she  felt  the  man  reach  down 
and  take  up  the  skirt  of  her  short  white  frock; 
she  knew  that  he  was  rubbing  the  vase  dry  and 

154 


COBWEB 

free  of  the  last  speck  of  dirt;  she  heard  him  place 
it  once  more  on  the  table. 

"'Now!'  he  said. 

"She  opened  her  eyes.  The  first  thing  she 
saw  was  the  man's  face.  He  was  leaning  for- 
ward, his  chin  cupped  in  his  hands.  Tears  were 
rolling  down  his  cheeks  and  losing  themselves 
in  his  beard.  Then  her  eyes  drew  slowly  to  a 
spot  of  dark  yet  shining  glory.  The  bottle  stood 
firmly  though  lightly  on  the  table;  it  was  like  a 
bulb  with  a  long,  slender,  upright  neck.  By  a 
mere  shade  the  potter's  wheel  might  have  made 
it  clumsy  or  vulgar  or  just  beyond  the  narrow 
bounds  of  exact  proportion,  but  none  of  these 
tragedies  had  befallen.  It  held  her  eyes  and 
then,  because  its  beauty  was  so  smiling,  it  crept 
into  her  heart. 

"The  man  said,  ' Clair-de-lune,  when  was  the 
beginning  of  the  reign  of  Kang-he?'  And  the 
little  girl  answered,  'His  reign  began  in  sixteen 
sixty-one  and  ended  in  seventeen  twenty-two.' 

"But  the  man  shook  his  head  and  touched  the 
beautiful  bottle  tenderly  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers.  'How  can  you  say  his  reign  has  ended 
when  it  is  here  before  your  eyes?  Look!  How 
deep  is  the  luster!  See  how  pale  red  swirls  there 
into  pink  and  here  clouds  gently  to  the  true  red 
of  clotted  sang  de  bceuf;  look  at  the  russet  spots 
ll  155 


COBWEB 

and  see  how  the  verdigris  breaks  softly  through 
them  in  a  pale  splash  of  green.  How  well  they 
named  this  lovely  and  enduring  blossom,  my 
dear.  They  call  it  peach  bloom.  No  man  in- 
vented it,  but  when  it  had  flown  like  a  gorgeous 
bird  into  a  chamber  window  Kang-he  and  his 
great  master  of  the  imperial  works,  Ts'ang 
Ying-Hsuan,  studied  deeply  whence  it  came  and 
learned  the  sure  call  to  which  it  would  ever 
answer.  Those  two  men  do  not  die  while  this 
lucent  loveliness  lives  on.  Kang-he  still  reigns 
within  this  orb  of  beauty  whose  colors  were 
painted  by  no  transitory  hand,  but  were  married 
under  the  glaze  and  to  the  glaze  by  the  fusing 
flame  of  the  grand  feu.' " 

The  girl  drew  a  quivering  sigh  which  ended  in 
a  whimsical  smile  as  her  eyes  came  back  to  Bourne 
and  the  present. 

"We  loved  it,"  she  concluded,  "but  we  sold 
it  for  many  thousands  of  dollars,  with  which  was 
founded  the — a  great  trading  house.  The  dear 
bottle  is  safe  now  for  all  time  in  a  noble  glass 
case  under  the  guardianship  of  a  nation,  but  I 
can't  help  wondering  if  it  hasn't  memories  which 
put  histories  of  new  peoples  to  shame.  Do  you 
think  it  has  forgotten  its  place  of  usefulness  and 
dignity  in  some  mandarin's  palace  of  three 
hundred  years  ago?  Don't  you  think  it  re- 

156 


COBWEB 

members  children — many  children — that  were 
born  and  grew  old  and  died?  Didn't  it  surely 
see  the  fortunes  of  a  noble  house  rise  to  the  peak 
of  pomp  and  then  fall  and  fall  to  the  degradation 
of  generations  who  could  send  a  peach-bloom 
vase  to  market  for  ten  cash  worth  of  oil?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bourne,  "but  the  dearest  of  its 
memories  must  be  the  awakening  from  its  long 
black  sleep  to  see  the  wonder  and  the  adoration 
of  a  little  girl,  all  legs  and  eyes,  perched  upon  a 
stool  in  the  gray  light  of  the  shabby  houseboat. 
My  dear,  with  each  word  that  you  speak  and 
each  moment  that  we  spend  together  I  love  you 
more.  Let's  stop  dreaming  or  my  heart  will 
burst.  Come  back  to  this  room;  listen  to  the 
music,  not  with  your  head,  but  with  your  feet. 
Don't  you  want  to  be  human  and  play  for  a 
little  while  on  the  plane  of  body  and  rhythm?  " 

"I  long  to,"  said  the  girl,  "only  I'm  afraid. 
Do  you  think  that  while  I've  been  talking  to  you 
I  haven't  been  watching  the  feet  and  the  sway 
of  the  dancers?  Sometimes  at  the  place  where 
I  am  living  the  music  has  come  up  to  my  room 
quite  clearly  and  I  have  danced  all  alone  as  I 
have  seen  others  dancing.  Is  it  very  wonderful?" 

"It  can  be,"  said  Bourne,  arising.  "Come 
along.  Don't  stop  to  think.  Let  yourself  go; 
give  yourself  not  to  me,  but  to  the  music." 

157 


COBWEB 

She  arose,  stood  poised  on  the  edge  of  doubt 
for  an  instant,  then  took  her  determination  and 
let  him  lead  her  to  the  floor.  His  hand  trem- 
bled as  he  slipped  his  arm  around  her;  he  was 
swept  back  to  that  gloriously  sensitive  age  when 
the  heart  leaps  to  the  throat  at  the  touch  of  the 
one  girl's  fingers,  when  to  press  secretly  her 
flowing  hair  to  one's  lips  is  to  drink  deep  of  the 
elixir  of  the  gods,  when  to  watch  the  rise  and  fall 
of  her  slim  bosom  is  to  court  blindness,  and  when 
to  think  of  the  daring  sacrilege  of  kissing  her 
mouth  in  some  moment  of  supernal  joy  is  to  fill 
the  whole  night  long  with  the  heady  wine  of 
first  love's  heartrending  dream. 

He  could  never  afterward  remember  the  mo- 
ment of  their  coming  together.  He  awoke 
slowly  to  the  fact  of  her  warm  body  in  his  arms 
and  to  his  own  voice  saying  a  little  huskily: 
"You  are  born  almost  perfect  in  this,  too. 
Don't  get  frightened.  Remember  that  if  you 
miss  a  step  I  shall  carry  you  until  you  find  your- 
self again." 

"But  the  people,"  murmured  the  girl.  "Every- 
one in  the  room  is  looking  at  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Bourne,  "but  they  are  looking  at 
the  wonder  of  your  pale  face,  not  at  our  feet. 
I  feel  men  staring  at  me  and  praying  in  their 
hearts  that  I  may  fall  dead." 

158 


COBWEB 

"And  I,  women,"  whispered  the  girl,  "hold- 
ing long,  thin  daggers  at  my  back.  Do  you 
think  they  hate  me  because  you  are  so  tall  and 
strong  and  carry  your  head  so  very  high?" 

"Forget  them  all,"  said  Bourne,  holding  her 
more  firmly.  "You  have  found  yourself;  we 
needn't  even  talk.  Give  yourself  to  me  and  to 
the  dance.  We  can  even  ride  on  the  bosom  of 
some  far-away  river  if  you  like.  But  before  we 
dream  again,  will  you  promise  me  one  thing?" 

"I  promise,"  said  the  girl,  promptly,  with 
none  of  the  mean  bargaining  which  is  the  ex- 
pected retort  to  the  age-old  plea,  "What  is  it?" 

"Dance  with  no  one  else  to-night,"  begged 
Bourne.  "You  will  find  men  crowding  casually 
to  our  table,  now  that  we  have  broken  our  own 
charmed  circle  of  ice.  Tell  them  that  you  have 
promised  all  your  dances  for  to-night,  will  you?  " 

The  girl  nodded  her  head  and  the  gloss  of  her 
loosely  piled  hair  all  but  brushed  his  cheek. 
He  looked  into  her  eyes,  so  close  to  his  own,  and 
talked  to  them  without  the  link  of  spoken  speech. 
He  was  conscious  of  such  an  intimate  com- 
munion as  he  had  never  before  experienced.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  by  some  alchemy  of  chance 
and  fate  the  woman  of  his  dreams  had  been 
delivered  for  a  night  into  his  keeping,  and  that 
unless  he  held  her  close,  yet  not  too  close,  she 

159 


COBWEB 

would  escape  again  into  that  broad  land  of  just 
beyond  where  all  of  us  unwillingly  keep  our  hopes 
and  aspirations  for  things  that  are  too  good  to 
come  true. 

They  finished  the  last  encore  with  sighs  so 
equal  in  volume  and  expression  that  their  eyes 
and  lips  broke  into  a  mutual  smile  which  seemed 
to  weld  the  new  link  that  had  been  established 
between  them.  Before  they  could  reach  the 
table  by  the  wall  their  progress  was  skillfully 
blocked  by  no  other  than  the  man  of  the  girl's 
encounter  at  the  theater.  He  caught  Bourne 
familiarly  by  the  elbow  and  gave  him  the  smile 
that  is  as  soft  as  the  pad  of  a  kitten's  foot  with 
claws  sheathed,  and  which,  being  interpreted  by 
the  initiated  in  the  finesse  of  the  polite  world, 
says  in  unmistakable  terms,  "  Stand  and  deliver! " 

"Hello,  Ritt,  old  man!" 

"Hello,  Dean." 

There  was  an  appreciable  pause  while  Bourne 
received  the  full  effect  of  the  amiable  smile.  He 
had  his  choice  between  introducing  the  highway- 
man who  held  the  narrow  way  between  two 
tables,  and  throwing  down  an  unwarranted  gauge 
by  deliberately  turning  a  cold  shoulder  and  lead- 
ing the  girl  by  a  circuitous  route. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  surrendering  to  con- 
ventional necessity  when  he  noticed  a  peculiar 

160 


COBWEB 

change  in  the  expression  of  the  smiling  face 
before  him,  as  though  its  amiability  had  sud- 
denly become  fixed  and  lifeless,  a  mask.  He 
glanced  around  and  saw  that  the  girl  was  gone 
from  his  side.  She  was  calmly  threading  her 
way  toward  the  ladies'  dressing  room,  apparently 
unconscious  of  the  half-veiled  glances  which 
assailed  her  from  every  angle  and  of  the  flurry 
of  subdued  comment  which  arose  in  her  wake. 

With  a  mumbled  apology  Bourne  pushed  by 
his  acquaintance  and  made  his  way  to  the  table 
where  the  girl's  lovely  wrap,  thrown  across  her 
chair  and  still  showing  the  impress  of  her  body, 
comforted  him  with  the  promise  that  she  must 
return.  Many  moments  passed  and  the  music 
had  begun  again  before  she  came  back  to  him. 
His  alert  eyes  caught  her  up  the  instant  she 
re-entered  the  room,  and  watched  her  progress 
with  a  possessive  pride.  She  walked  serenely 
as  one  who  has  the  inborn  right  to  homage,  head 
erect,  her  hands  held  easily  at  her  sides.  While 
she  was  still  far  away  her  eyes  leaped  across  the 
intervening  space  and  came  to  smiling  grips 
with  his  eager  gaze. 

In  spite  of  his  absorption  he  caught  sight  of 
another  woman — a  woman  to  whom  his  world 
could  deny  nothing  with  impunity,  making  her 
deliberate  way  toward  his  table  with  an  evident 

161 


COBWEB 

purpose  which  would  not  be  turned  by  any  trick 
of  subterfuge.  Bourne  smiled  good-naturedly  to 
himself,  for  she  was  one  for  whom  he  held  a 
deep  respect;  then  a  look  of  alarm  froze  his 
features  as  he  realized  that  he  did  not  know  the 
girl's  name.  He  prayed  fervently  that  she 
should  reach  him  first,  and  as  he  arose  to  draw 
her  chair  for  her  he  whispered  in  her  ear, 
imperatively: 

"Tell  me  your  name,  dear.     Quickly." 
"Alloway,"  said  the  girl,  startled,  and  looked 
at  him  reproachfully. 


Chapter  Nine 

AMONG  the  guests  of  that  assembly,  which  was 
uniform  in  correctness  of  attire,  but  decidedly 
motley  in  morals,  was  a  lady  for  whom  Bourne 
and  every  other  man  present  reserved  a  special 
and  peculiar  respect.  Far  from  being  beautiful, 
she  was  ungainly  in  appearance  and  movements; 
yet,  in  spite  of  the  forty-odd  years  that  had 
passed  over  her  graying  head,  she  had  retained 
not  only  a  quality  of  youth  as  rare  as  it  is  un- 
mistakable, but  had  reserved  to  herself  certain 
standards  from  which  individually  she  never 
wavered.  Her  name  was  Angela  Abigail  Living- 
stone, and  it  was  her  determined  advance  in  the 
general  direction  of  his  table  which  had  moved 
Bourne  to  such  sudden  inquisitiveness  and 
action. 

The  very  fact  that  Miss  Livingstone  should 
approach  his  table  after  three  hours  during 
which  she  had  undoubtedly  had  ample  oppor- 
tunity to  study  his  vis-a-vis  came  to  him  as  proof 
heaped  on  his  own  conviction  that  the  girl  car- 
ried upon  her  person  those  unquestionable  cre- 
dentials of  individual  merit  which  are  becoming 
more  and  more  rare  in  the  mixed  company  of  any 
semipublic  function. 

163 


COBWEB 

"It's  Miss  Alloway,  Angela,"  said  Bourne,  and 
added,  turning  to  his  companion,  "Miss  Living- 
stone. I'm  mighty  glad  to  have  you  know  each 
other." 

"May  I  sit  down,"  said  Angela,  taking  the 
girl's  hand,  "just  for  a  moment?" 

"We  are  so  pleased,"  said  the  girl,  softly  and 
with  a  genuine  smile  of  welcome  lighting  up  her 
pale  face.  "Do  sit  down  and  talk  to  me.  I 
would  love  to  have  you  talk  to  me." 

Bourne  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and,  with  a 
half  smile  twitching  at  the  corners  of  his  lips, 
watched  on  Angela's  face  the  effect  of  the  girl's 
deliberate,  lightly  sonorous  speech.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  saw  the  older  woman  stare, 
but  her  gaze  was  immediately  robbed  of  any 
possible  offense  by  such  a  look  of  stripped 
sincerity  as  marks  only  the  large  moments  of 
life. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  laying  her  thin  fingers  on 
the  girl's  soft  hand,  "forgive  me  for  staring  at  you 
so.  I  have  been  looking  at  you  all  evening,  ever 
since  you  came  in,  and  I  found  you  so  adorable 
that  I  couldn't  stay  away  any  longer."  She 
flushed  suddenly  and  added,  "You  mustn't 
think  I  make  a  habit  of  gushing." 

"I  think  it  is  very  nice  of  you,"  said  the  girl, 
gravely. 

164 


COBWEB 

"What  have  you  two  been  talking  about, 
literally  by  the  hour?"  asked  Miss  Livingstone. 
"I  confess  to  abject  curiosity.  Was  he  making 
love  to  you  all  that  time?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  the  girl,  quite  frankly,  "not  all 
the  time.  We  were  talking  of  the  Middle 
Kingdom,  of  dynasties  and  kings,  of  rivers  and 
towns,  of  sounds,  beggars,  and  porcelain,  of 
temples,  palaces,  and  forgotten  capitals.  I'm 
afraid  it  was  a  jumble  of  runaway  thoughts,  a 
sort  of  orgy  of  traveling  in  our  minds." 

"Have  you  traveled  a  great  deal?"  asked 
Miss  Livingstone. 

Unconsciously  Bourne  leaned  forward.  There 
occurred  one  of  those  almost  imperceptible 
pauses  which  to  people  of  refinement  spell  a 
subtle  signal  of  warning  against  trespass,  and 
then  the  girl  answered,  evenly:  "Not  a  very 
great  deal.  There  are  so  many  ways  to  travel, 
aren't  there?  So  many  roads  to  follow,  so  many 
hills  to  climb,  such  endless  rivers  to  explore — 
and,  after  all,  it's  only  one  road." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Miss  Livingstone. 
"You're  so  wonderfully  young,  what  can  you 
mean?" 

"I  mean,"  said  the  girl,  wistfully,  "that  our 
feet  can  walk  only  a  single  narrow  path  all  their 
little  days  until  they  are  worn  out  and  stop; 

165 


COBWEB 

just  anywhere — always  in  the  middle  of  the 
beautiful  long  way." 

Miss  Livingstone  glanced  over  her  shoulder  as 
though  to  assure  herself  that  she  was  still  in  the 
half -empty,  disordered  ballroom.  "I  wish  you 
to  say  that  you  will  let  Ritt  Bourne  bring  you 
to  see  me;  not  to-morrow,  but  very  soon." 

"That  reminds  me,  Angela,"  said  Bourne,  "I 
promised  father  I  would  persuade  you  to  dine 
with  us.  Now  is  my  chance.  Say  you  will  come 
on  Thursday." 

"I'll  come,"  said  Miss  Livingstone,  promptly, 
her  eyes  still  on  the  girl's  face. 

"All  right;  that's  fine,"  said  Bourne,  "and  in 
exchange  I'll  promise  to  bring  Miss  Alloway  to 
see  you  the  very  day  after  to-morrow — if  she'll 
come." 

The  girl  turned  her  eyes  on  him.  "Why  do 
you  call  me  Miss  Alloway? "  she  asked.  "You're 
not  a  Southerner  or  a  servant.  How  would  it 
sound  if  I  called  you  Mr.  Ritt?" 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  A  flood  of  color 
swept  up  over  Bourne's  face.  "Is  Alloway 
your  first  name?"  he  asked,  in  desperation,  feel- 
ing Miss  Livingstone's  eyes  upon  him. 

"Of  course,"  said  the  girl. 

Again  there  was  a  weighty  pause.  Miss  Living- 
stone arose  swiftly.  "My  dear,"  she  said,  "it 

166 


COBWEB 

makes  no  difference  to  me  whether  you  have  a 
thousand  names  or  none.  Be  sure  and  come  to 
see  me." 

As  she  left  them  Bourne  sank  back  into  his 
chair,  thrust  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets, 
settled  his  head  into  his  neck,  and  showed  other 
signs  of  bodily  and  mental  relaxation  after  strain. 
There  was  a  faintly  lugubrious  look  on  his  face 
as  he  said,  "Now,  Alloway,  will  you  tell  me  all 
your  name?" 

Any  highly  developed  personality  is  as  sen- 
sitive a  plant  as  the  mimosa,  and  as  subject  to 
warmth,  light,  fatigue,  or  a  blow.  With  the 
words  she  had  spoken  of  the  narrow,  short  path 
of  life,  Alloway's  mood  had  changed  as  sud- 
denly as  a  weather  vane  in  a  veering  wind,  and 
to  her  new  attitude  had  come  as  a  shock  the 
awkward  moment  of  the  revelation  of  her 
extraordinarily  casual  acquaintance  with  her 
companion  of  the  evening.  She  was  seized  with 
a  sudden  lassitude  and  made  no  direct  reply 
to  Bourne's  question. 

"I  am  very  tired,"  she  said.  "I  wish  to  go 
home." 

She  seemed  not  to  notice  the  hurt  look  which 
swept  like  a  shadow  across  his  face  as  he  drew 
himself  together,  arose,  and  helped  her  on  with 
her  wrap.  He  piloted  her  out  of  the  room  in 

167 


COBWEB 

silence,  secured  a  cab,  helped  her  in,  and,  after 
telling  the  chauffeur  to  drive  anywhere  until 
further  orders,  he  sprang  to  the  seat  beside  her. 
Her  depression  had  seized  upon  him  and  he  felt 
himself  being  dragged  down  and  down  to  depths 
he  had  never  before  fathomed;  he  wondered  if 
anything  could  ever  again  bring  him  up  to  ride 
the  high  wave  of  elation  which  had  only  a  few 
moments  before  been  carrying  him  triumphantly 
on  its  crest.  Then  the  girl's  hand  stole  slowly 
from  folds  of  black  lace  and  came  to  rest  lightly 
upon  his  arm.  Immediately  his  blood  rushed 
with  a  furious  surge  to  his  temples  and  he  caught 
a  sharp  breath  as  he  felt  himself  being  whirled 
once  more  to  the  heights  at  a  vertiginous  pace. 
Her  shoulder  touched  him,  leaned  against  him. 

"Don't  think  me  ungrateful,"  she  said. 
"  Please,  Ritt,  don't  be  cross  with  me." 

"Cross  with  you!"  he  cried,  half  turning 
toward  her  and  laying  his  hand  on  hers.  "I'm 
not  cross,  dear;  only  terrified  for  fear  I  shall 
never  find  you  again." 

"That  is  strange,"  said  Alloway.  "I  was 
afraid  of  that,  too." 

He  had  an  impulse  to  gather  her  in  his  arms 
and  hold  her  there  to  infinity,  but  behind  her 
nai've  sincerity  he  sensed  a  boundless  reserve, 
an  innate  consciousness  of  values,  which  would 

168 


COBWEB 

later  hold  both  her  and  himself  to  account  if  he 
should  take  advantage  of  her  tender  moment  of 
repentance  and  break  down  in  the  promiscuous 
haven  of  a  taxicab  those  last  barriers  beyond 
which  two  will  forever  dream  to  travel  as  one. 
He  looked  at  her  earnestly  and  restrained  him- 
self further  by  thinking  of  what  a  glory  it  would 
be  to  win  her  in  some  open  wind-swept  setting 
of  rocks  and  trees,  blue  sky  and  flying  clouds. 

"Alloway,"  he  said,  "you  are  so  white  and 
luminous,  so  like  the  pale  lantern  of  the  moon 
behind  a  veil  of  leaves,  that  I'm  afraid  to  touch 
you.  You  are  like  a  vase  that  might  be  beautiful 
forever  but  for  some  careless  hand.  You  know 
I  would  never  hurt  you,  don't  you?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  slowly  to  his.  "I  think 
you  would  never  wish  to  hurt  me,"  she  said. 

"If  I  ever  do,"  said  Bourne,  earnestly,  "it  will 
be  because  I  love  you.  The  madman  in  me 
doesn't  want  to  let  you  go  even  for  a  moment, 
but  I  suppose  that  you  and  I  are  still  mortal; 
though,  in  a  way,  it  seems  absurd.  You  must 
sleep  and  I  must  try  to,  but  I  can't  even  lie  down 
unless  you  promise  me  that  in  the  morning 
you'll  let  me  come  for  you  and  drive  you  miles 
and  miles  into  the  country.  Would  you  like 
to  do  that?" 

The  girl  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  would  like 
169 


COBWEB 

very  much,"  she  said,  "to  drive  miles  and  miles 
into  the  country  with  you.  When  will  you  come 
forme?" 

"At  ten,"  he  answered,  promptly.  "Now 
where  shall  I  tell  the  driver  to  take  us?" 

She  gave  him  the  name  of  her  hotel.  "Think 
of  it!"  said  Bourne.  "You  have  been  there  all 
the  time  I  have  been  dreaming  of  you!  Don't 
you  despise  me  for  not  having  torn  the  place 
down,  or  at  least  stood  in  front  of  the  door  day 
and  night  until  you  came  out?" 

"No,"  said  Alloway.  "I  would  have  despised 
you  if  you  had  done  that.  It's  the  sort  of  thing 
your  friend,  Mr.  Dean,  would  have  done." 

"Not  Mr.  Dean,"  said  Bourne.  "His  name  is 
Maitland,  so  we  call  him  Dean  for  short.  But 
what  do  you  know  about  what  he  would  do?"  he 
added,  quickly. 

She  told  him  about  the  incident  of  the  theater 
steps  and  then  asked,  "Don't  you  think  that  a 
man  who  speaks  to  a  girl  like  that  without  an 
introduction  ought  to  be  punished?" 

"Punished!"  cried  Bourne,  excitedly.  "He 
ought  to  be  tarred  and  feathered.  Cad  is  the 
word.  He  ought  to  be  hanged.  If  ever  I — " 

He  stopped  suddenly;  their  eyes  met.  On 
the  face  of  each  was  the  selfsame  expression  of 
startled  dismay. 

170 


COBWEB 

"I — "  gasped  Bourne,  perceiving  that  she  had 
laid  for  him  no  intentional  trap. 

"You — "  began  Alloway,  in  a  tone  of  amazed 
discovery. 

Then  they  laughed;  full-throated,  open- 
hearted  laughter.  Bourne  took  her  ungloved 
hand  between  his  own  and  pressed  it  harder  and 
harder  until  she  said,  "Please,  you're  hurting 
me." 

He  released  her  so  suddenly  that  she  seemed  to 
feel  a  vague  dissatisfaction,  as  though  violence 
of  any  kind,  even  the  shock  of  too  quick  a  with- 
drawal or  too  abrupt  an  acquiescence,  offended 
the  fine  balance  of  her  sensibilities.  She  slipped 
her  hand  back  between  his.  "I  like  to  have  you 
hold  it,"  she  explained,  simply,  "only  not  so 
hard,  please." 

"All  right,"  said  Bourne,  patting  it  gently. 
"It's  lucky  you  are  wearing  no  ring  yet;  but  I 
must  tell  you  why  it's  different  with  us.  Mait- 
land  couldn't  possibly  have  loved  you  as  I  did 
from  the  first  moment  I  laid  eyes  on  you.  He 
would  have  wanted  to,  of  course,  only  he  just 
couldn't.  And  besides,  there  was  no  tear  boun- 
cing down  your  cheek  and  shouting  for  help  when 
he  saw  you.  It  seems  to  me  that  makes  all  the 
difference  in  the  world,  especially  two  tears. 
Don't  you  think  so,  dear?" 
12  171 


COBWEB 

"I  know  it's  very  different,"  said  Alloway, 
"but  I  can't  tell  why.  Perhaps  it's  because  I 
hoped  you  would  find  a  way  to  speak  to  me  if 
ever  I  saw  you  again." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Bourne,  softly. 

"I  suppose  it  was  very  wrong  of  me  to  hope 
such  a  thing,"  continued  Alloway,  "but  how 
terrible  it  would  have  been  if  I  hadn't.  I  should 
have  been  angry  with  you  inside,  as  I  was  with 
Mr.  Maitland,  and  perhaps  we  never  in  our 
lives  would  have  met." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Bourne,  again,  hoping  she 
would  go  on. 

"You  must  have  known  a  great  many  girls," 
she  said,  presently. 

"In  a  way,"  said  Bourne.  "Just  as  one 
knows  a  lot  of  corners  you've  got  to  keep 
turning." 

"How  many  have  you  known?"  asked  Allo- 
way. "A  dozen?" 

"More  than  that,"  replied  Bourne.  "About 
a  thousand." 

"A  thousand ! "  exclaimed  Alloway.  "I  didn't 
know  there  were  so  many  girls;  I  thought  they 
married." 

"They  do,  you  strange  wonder!"  cried  Bourne. 
"At  least,  they  used  to.  Now  they  are  rather 
strong  on  lawful,  but  mostly  temporary,  partner- 

172 


COBWEB 

ships  in  flats  in  big  apartment  houses  that  go 
five  years  without  stooping  to  one  baby.  It's  a 
sort  of  marriage." 

"No  babies?"  said  Alloway,  wonderingly. 

"I  mean  the  kind  of  girl  I  was  thinking  about," 
qualified  Bourne. 

"You've  never  seen  one  you  wanted  to  marry? 
Before  to-night?" 

"Never  one,"  said  Bourne,  gravely.  "They 
all  hurt  my  neck — like  diving  into  hard  sand  in 
two  feet  of  water." 

"Why  do  you  think  you  love  me?"  asked 
Alloway. 

"Because  I  don't  know  why,"  answered 
Bourne,  after  a  pause.  "I  just  woke  up  into 
loving  you  after  a  horrible  dream.  I  have  been 
looking  for  you  in  every  one  of  the  thousand  girls 
I  told  you  I've  met,  but  you  weren't  there;  only 
a  little  bit  of  you  every  once  in  a  while  scattered 
around  so  widely  that  I  would  have  had  to  be  a 
Turk  to  collect  the  pieces.  They  are  hard,  our 
girls,  Alloway;  brilliant,  good  to  look  at,  some 
of  them,  but  cold  like  diamonds  set  in  platinum. 
You  know  one  and  you  know  them  all.  It  isn't 
their  fault,  poor  dears;  they  are  the  victims  of  a 
national  mania  for  standardization  and  inter- 
changeable parts." 

"I  think  you  must  be  wrong,"  said  Alloway, 
173 


COBWEB 

troubled.  "I  hope  you  are.  I  couldn't  possibly 
make  friends  with  a  motor  car." 

Bourne  laughed.  "That's  good,"  he  said. 
"How  quick  you  are!  Girls  for  motor  cars, 
some  with  sweetly  running  engines,  lovely  lines, 
and  high  polish;  others  that  pretend;  and  finally 
a  vast  horde  of  strictly  utilitarian  machines  that 
go  about  their  business  in  neat  tin  suits,  all 
looking  as  like  as  a  packet  of  new  pins.  I  don't 
mean,  by  any  means,  that  all  of  them  haven't 
a  lot  of  fine  qualities.  They  have;  in  a  way  they 
are  wholly  admirable,  good  hill  climbers,  though 
apt  to  get  jumpy  on  level  ground.  They  can't 
stand  speed,  somehow,  but  have  an  extraordinary 
appetite  for  it.  They  are  always  going  and 
never  going  anywhere.  But  the  worst  of  it  is 
you  know  all  about  them  without  lifting  the 
hood." 

"It  is  terrible  to  know  everything  about  any- 
thing, isn't  it?"  said  Alloway.  "The  dolls  in  the 
window  are  always  the  most  beautiful,  the  road 
that  hides  itself  in  trees  or  over  a  hill  is  the  most 
wonderful  road.  Do  you  think  it  would  help  if 
every  girl  should  say  to  herself,  '  I'm  not  a  high- 
way; I  am  a  path  with  twists  and  turns,  with 
ups  and  downs,  sunlight  and  shadow,  and  a  goal 
of  mystery  always  just  beyond?" 

"If  they  could  live  it  as  well  as  dream  it," 
174 


COBWEB 

replied  Bourne,  "it  would  help  tremendously. 
For  instance,  so  many  of  the  men  you  saw 
to-night  wouldn't  be  driving  second-hand  cars." 

"Second-hand  cars?"  repeated  Alloway. 

He  nodded.  "Divorced  women.  Most  di- 
vorced women  are  likable,  and  I'll  tell  you  why. 
They  haven't  the  irreplaceable  charm  of  a  bloom 
eternally  fresh  for  the  eyes  of  the  one  man,  but 
they  have  the  next  best  thing — the  imagination 
or  the  courage  or  the  inner  difference  that  it  took 
to  make  them  jump  the  track  and  make  for  the 
woods.  They  aren't  undiscovered  paths,  but 
they  are  competent  and  entertaining  guides  along 
a  diversity  of  traveled  ways." 

"Could  you  love  a  woman  like  that?" 

"Not  willingly, ' '  said  Bourne.  ' ' The  men  who 
love  them  carry  a  sure  misery  behind  and  a 
probable  one  before;  but  the  men  who  take  them 
as  a  compromise  between  the  worshipful  and  the 
monotonous  seem  to  come  out  pretty  well; 
they  use  them  sensibly,  like  halfway  houses  on 
the  road  to  the  unattainable  yet  never-dying 
dream." 

"Would  you  have  compromised?"  asked  the 
girl. 

He  paused  before  answering.  "Perhaps,"  he 
replied,  finally.  "There  may  be  no  end  to  the 
road  we  travel,  as  you  said  to  Miss  Livingstone, 

175 


COBWEB 

but  there  is  an  end  to  our  traveling  of  it.  Most 
of  us  never  think  aloud  as  I  am  doing  now, 
but  every  man  in  his  heart  takes  measure  sooner 
or  later  of  the  milestones.  When  that  day  comes 
ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  us  turn  with  a 
sigh  to  putting  our  houses  in  order,  and  take  the 
next  best  thing.  Thank  God  I  don't  have  to 
worry  over  that  crossroads  any  more." 

Alloway's  hand  turned  softly  in  his;  her 
shoulder  sank  closer  to  him  with  a  caressing 
touch  that  made  his  whole  body  tremble.  There 
was  an  instant  of  suspense,  of  threatened  balance, 
of  touch  and  go  between  suppression  and  the 
loosed  flood;  then  she  sat  suddenly  erect. 

"Where  on  earth  are  we  going?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bourne,  dreamily. 

"I  mean,  where  did  you  tell  the  driver  to  take 
us?" 

"Oh,  that!"  said  Bourne.  "I  told  him  to  drive 
anywhere." 

She  laughed.  "How  wonderful  of  you!"  she 
said.  "But  you  know  we  are  mortal  even  if  it 
does  seem  absurd,  and  I'm  sleepy — I'm  very 
sleepy." 

He  stopped  the  driver  and  directed  him;  then 
he  took  the  girl's  hand  again  and  drew  her  close 
to  his  side.  "Let  yourself  go,"  he  said,  re- 
pentantly. "Forget  me;  I  have  tired  you  out." 

176 


COBWEB 

She  shook  her  head  in  denial  of  both  his  re- 
quest and  assertion.  She  continued  to  sit  very 
straight,  her  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed  beyond 
the  confines  of  the  narrow  cab.  When  they  ar- 
rived* at  the  hotel  she  stepped  out  quickly, 
started  up  the  steps,  and  then  turned  and  came 
back.  She  glanced  at  the  weary  night  doorman 
and  at  the  waiting  driver;  then  she  drew  Bourne 
a  step  aside  and  looked  into  his  eyes  with  a  gaze 
so  limpid,  so  tender,  and  so  unafraid  that  he  felt 
a  nearness  to  her  far  more  intimate  than  could 
have  been  imparted  by  any  casual  embrace. 

"Listen,"  she  whispered.  "Put  your  ear 
close  to  my  lips.  Thank  you.  Thank  you  for 
everything;  but  most  of  all  because  you  didn't 
kiss  me  to-night." 


Chapter  Ten 

IT  did  not  seem  to  Bourne  that  he  went  to  sleep 
that  night,  but  that  he  was  translated  by  a 
gradation  of  reminiscent  sensations,  merging 
step  by  step  up  to  a  high  plane  of  intoxicating 
dreams  and  airy  unconsciousness  halfway  be- 
tween wakefulness  and  slumber.  To  old  Simon, 
who  put  his  head  in  at  the  door  at  eight  in  the 
morning  and  again  half  an  hour  later,  this 
definition  would  have  seemed  unnecessarily 
subtle;  it  was  his  opinion  that  the  young  master 
was  sleeping  like  a  log.  The  flair  for  never  mak- 
ing a  mistake  acquired  through  two  generations 
of  service  made  the  old  man  nervously  acute, 
and  finally,  for  no  more  palpable  reason  than 
that  it  was  an  exceptionally  fine  day,  he  decided 
to  open  the  curtains  with  a  rattle  at  nine. 

"Hello,  Simon!"  cried  Bourne,  springing  erect 
and  wide  awake.  "What  tune  is  it?" 

"Nine  o'clock,  sir." 

"What?  Nine  o'clock?  Run  a  bath  for  me, 
have  breakfast  on  the  table  in  twenty  minutes, 
telephone  the  garage  for  the  car  I  had  out  day 
before  yesterday,  and,  if  you  can,  Simon,  if  you 
love  me,  fix  up  a  nice  lunch  for  two  to  be  ready 
in  half  an  hour." 

178 


COBWEB 

He  sank  back  in  bed  just  for  a  moment  to  col- 
lect his  wits  and  to  think  how  terrible  it  would 
have  been  if  he  had  not  awaked  when  he  did! 
What  if  he  had  arrived  late  at  his  first  tryst 
with  happiness?  What  if  she  had  been  hurt  and 
then  piqued  and  had  refused  to  see  him  when 
he  came  or — horrible  thought!— had  packed  up 
her  things  quickly  and  moved  away,  leaving  no 
word  and  no  trace?  He  arose  and  went  swiftly 
about  the  business  of  dressing,  shaving  himself 
with  particular  care,  and  giving  to  other  details 
of  his  toilette  a  painstaking  attention  which  is 
commonly  supposed  to  attend  only  the  phe- 
nomenon of  calf  love,  but  which,  if  one  could 
play  spy  on  the  intimate  moments  of  many  a  full- 
grown  man  would  be  found  to  linger  on  as  a 
corollary  of  that  inner  boyhood  which,  if  it  be 
fed  but  once  in  ten  years,  never  dies. 

While  he  dressed  he  reviewed  in  detail  the 
astounding  events  of  the  night  before,  and 
gradually  returned  to  a  state  of  relative  sanity. 
He  convinced  himself  that  some  unwonted  wine 
imbibed  from  the  atmosphere  must  have  gone  to 
his  head  and  made  him  see  events  as  well  as  his 
guest  of  the  evening  through  rose-colored  glasses. 
In  the  bright  light  of  the  morning  it  was  alto- 
gether incredible  that  the  girl  should  truly  be  all 
he  remembered  her  to  have  seemed.  He  pre- 
179 


COBWEB 

pared  himself  deliberately  for  disillusionment,  and 
by  exercising  all  his  aptitude  for  methodical 
haste  he  succeeded  in  arriving  at  the  hotel 
exactly  on  time. 

Alloway  came  to  him  at  once.  He  stared  at 
her  as  she  crossed  the  lobby,  and,  forgetting  his 
manners,  continued  to  stare.  Her  appearance 
did  not  startle  him;  he  simply  emerged  from  the 
doubts  which  had  seized  upon  him  into  a  com- 
pletely different  entity;  the  cynic  died,  the  be- 
liever awoke.  But,  more  than  that,  he  was  con- 
scious of  the  instantaneous  establishment  of  an 
extraordinary  communion  with  this  person  who 
twenty-four  hours  before  had  been  a  total 
stranger.  The  prosaic  surroundings  of  the  hotel 
entrance,  the  faces  of  curious  onlookers,  the 
whole  everyday  world,  faded  suddenly  away  and 
left  him  filled  with  the  rare  exhilaration  of  one 
who  stands  at  the  verge  of  a  limitless  yet  in- 
dividual possession. 

"Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?"  asked  the  girl. 
"I  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

"I  am  struck  dumb  with  gladness,"  said 
Bourne,  gravely.  "You  can't  imagine  how 
extraordinary  it  seems  that  you  should  ever  wait 
for  me,  especially  when  I'm  exactly  on  time." 

He  led  her  out  to  the  car  and  packed  her  away 
carefully  in  the  front  seat.  She  laughed  at  him 

180 


COBWEB 

as  he  tucked  a  soft  rug  around  her  ankles  and 
beneath  her  feet,  and  then  drew  it  snugly  about 
her  waist;  but  he  paid  no  heed  to  her  merriment, 
for  he  was  absorbed  in  the  jauntiness  of  her 
high-collared  woolen  coat  and  in  wonder  at  a 
hat  that  could  be  small  and  yet  beautiful  with  the 
allure  and  the  joy  of  a  fugitive  flame.  He  was 
proud  of  her;  proud  that  she  had  the  power  and 
the  taste  to  match  her  clothing  superlatively  to 
the  occasion,  to  the  resplendent  morning  and  to 
her  glorious  self.  He  drew  a  long  breath  that 
was  almost  a  sigh  as  he  walked  around  the  car 
to  take  his  place  at  the  wheel. 

"Did  you  notice  how  oddly  the  doorman  looked 
at  you  when  he  saluted  and  said, '  Good  morning, 
Mr.  Bourrrne'?"  asked  Alloway,  as  they  swung 
into  the  Avenue. 

"I  didn't  know  there  was  a  doorman  left 
on  earth,"  replied  Bourne.  And  added,  in  ex- 
planation: "I  was  thinking  of  just  we  two. 
What  right  has  he  to  look  at  me,  anyway?" 

"The  right  of  a  cat  to  look  at  a  king,"  an- 
swered Alloway,  promptly,  and  laughed  so  gayly 
that  the  driver  of  a  passing  car  slowed  up  to 
listen.  She  put  both  hands  over  her  mouth  and 
rolled  her  sparkling  eyes  at  Bourne. 

"I  mustn't  do  that,"  she  said,  "not  until  we 
are  really  and  truly  in  the  country." 

181 


COBWEB 

"Laugh  when  and  where  you  like,"  said 
Bourne.  "I  love  to  hear  you,  and  if  the  rest  of 
the  world  does,  too,  we'll  have  to  put  up  with  it. 
What  kind  of  a  look  was  it  the  doorman  wasted 
on  me?" 

"It  was  a  sort  of  mixture  of  hurt  surprise  and 
warning,"  said  Alloway,  "as  though  he  won- 
dered how  we  had  come  together  and  whether 
you  were  altogether  to  be  trusted  with  anything 
so  precious  as  myself.  You  see,  I've  been  there 
a  good  while  now,  and  all  of  them,  including  the 
solemn  old  hotel,  seem  to  think  they  have  ac- 
quired a  proprietary  interest  in  me  and  in  all  my 
lonely  ways." 

"Why  should  you,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  be 
lonely?"  asked  Bourne. 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  He  glanced  at  her 
and  saw  that  her  face  had  grown  set  and  grave. 

"Forget  that  question,"  he  begged;  "please 
forget  it.  I — I  was  busy  driving  the  car  and 
didn't  think." 

"But  you're  going  to  be  busy  driving  the  car 
all  day,  aren't  you?"  she  said,  reprovingly,  "and 
it's  such  a  wonderful — it  could  be  such  a  perfect 
day!" 

Bourne  released  half  his  hold  on  the  wheel, 
caught  up  her  hand,  and  squeezed  it  impulsively. 
"Don't  worry  any  more,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her. 

182 


COBWEB 

"The  road  is  a  silver  ribbon  and  we  must  roll  it 
up,  all  of  it.  Not  in  a  tearing  hurry,  you  know, 
but  with  attention  and  method  so  as  not  to  muss 
the  edges." 

Alloway  laughed  happily.  "I  like  your  silver 
ribbon,"  she  said,  "and  I  have  always  wanted  to 
be  a  big  spool  rolling  along  on  its  own.  Where 
are  we  going?  Which  silver  ribbon  are  you  going 
to  choose?  Why  choose  any?  Why  don't  you  let 
your  subconscious  self  drive  the  car  while  the 
wide-awake  part  of  you  talks  to  me?  " 

"All  your  questions  are  one,"  said  Bourne, 
promptly.  "I  accept  their  command.  Let  the 
car  look  out  for  itself.  What  shall  we  talk 
about?" 

"There  are  a  thousand  and  one  things  to  talk 
about,"  said  Alloway,  "all  of  them  beautiful,  but 
this  air  seems  to  sweep  the  mind  so  clean  of  all 
the  thoughts  that  have  been  used  before  that  I 
can't  think  of  anything  besides  the  wonder  of 
being  here  and  alive  and  happy." 

"Are  you  happy?"  asked  Bourne.  "Are  you 
sure?  Because  to  be  happy  nowadays  is  to  share 
in  a  miracle." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  asked  the  girl.  "Of 
course,  I  know  very  little  about  it,  but  I  have 
always  thought  of  happiness  as  something  elu- 
sive though  not  easily  frightened,  something  like 

183 


COBWEB 

a  bright,  bold  bird  that  hops  on  the  sill  of  your 
open  window,  looks  in,  quirks  his  head,  ex- 
amines your  soul  with  his  brilliant  eyes,  and,  if 
he  sees  no  gilded  cage  with  a  nasty  trap  door, 
stays  for  a  moment  or  an  hour.  There  must 
always  be  an  open  window,  of  course;  wherever 
he  looks,  inside  you  or  out,  there  must  always 
be  an  open  window." 

Bourne  looked  at  her  face,  so  pensive,  so 
intent  on  following  the  whimsical  thought.  He 
could  actually  visualize  happiness  as  she  pic- 
tured it;  he  saw  the  bird  of  brilliant  plumage  and 
saucy  courage,  imagined  it  as  a  valiant  visitor 
daring  all  except  a  threat  of  imprisonment. 

"The  things  you  say  are  like  yourself,"  he 
said — "fanciful,  gossamer  winged,  and  yet  not 
elusive.  They  have  a  solid  foundation,  like 
fruit  that  is  lovely  to  look  at  and  better  to  eat." 

The  girl  touched  his  arm.  "You  are  nice  to 
me,"  she  said. 

For  half  an  hour  they  rode  in  silence,  and 
then,  as  he  took  a  certain  turning,  she  glanced 
at  him  swiftly,  but  without  attracting  his  atten- 
tion. His  face  was  pleasantly  serious,  his  eyes 
dreaming,  and  he  seemed  truly  to  be  giving  no 
attention  as  to  where  they  were  going;  but  at 
the  very  next  fork  in  the  road  he  appeared  to 
awake  to  consciousness,  to  hesitate  momen- 

184 


COBWEB 

tarily,  and  to  make  a  distinct  choice.  Imme- 
diately afterward  his  eyes  clouded  and  a  little 
furrow  drew  his  brows  together.  Alloway's  ex- 
pression subconsciously  followed  every  change; 
she,  too,  frowned,  and  presently  she  murmured, 
almost  disconsolately:  "Where  are  you  going? 
What  are  you  thinking?" 

There  was  more  meaning  in  her  tone  than  the 
words  implied,  but  Bourne  was  too  genuinely 
preoccupied  to  notice  the  subtle  alteration  in  her 
manner.  Her  eyes  traveled  ahead  of  the  car  and 
swept  the  hills  on  either  side  of  the  ascending 
road.  "Where  are  you  going?"  she  repeated. 

"It's  no  use  fibbing,"  said  Bourne.  "I  know 
this  road;  I  know  it  so  well  that  I  turned  into 
it  from  force  of  habit  and  without  any  conscious 
intention." 

His  words  seemed  to  reassure  the  girl.  She 
drew  a  long,  comfortable  breath  and  then  said, 
"If  you  know  it  so  very  well  you  can  surely  tell 
me  where  we  are  going." 

"I  could,"  replied  Bourne,  "if  I  knew  myself 
whether  we're  really  going  to  go  where  we  are 
headed.  It's  a  long  story,  but  the  sooner  I  tell 
it  to  you  the  better  I'll  feel.  It  will  be  for  you 
to  say  whether  I  did  right  or  wrong  and  to  de- 
cide just  what  we  are  to  do  now,  because  it  is  on 
account  of  you  that  I  have  entirely  forgotten  my 

185 


COBWEB 

best  friend  right  in  the  middle  of  the  greatest 
trouble  of  his  life." 

"Tell  me  the  story,"  said  Alloway,  sinking 
back  into  her  seat  and  half  turning  her  face 
toward  him. 

He  told  her  the  tale  of  Boies  and  Amelie  from 
its  very  beginning,  back  on  the  fringe  of  child- 
hood, up  to  the  tense  moment  when  he  had  left 
the  two  of  them  stripped  fairly  bare  of  the  con- 
ventions and  niceties  of  courtesy,  each  facing 
the  other,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives, 
on  the  battle  ground  of  primal  emotions. 

"People  aren't  especially  beautiful,"  he  said, 
"when  they  get  like  that,  but  they  are  real. 
Their  emotions  may  not  be  great  in  any  sense 
of  the  magnificent,  but  they  stir  up  all  the  great- 
ness there  is  within  reach.  Do  you  get  what  I 
mean?" 

Alloway  nodded  her  head.  "I  do  for  what 
you  say  just  now,"  she  qualified,  "but  not  for 
what  went  before.  I  can't  see  this  strange 
woman  Amelie  at  all.  It  is  impossible  to  be  a 
woman  like  that.  She  had  a  house  to  do  in 
just  as  she  liked;  she  was  never  constrained; 
she  was  not  poor;  she  had  children!  All  that, 
I  can't  understand  at  all,  and  I  feel  that  if  I 
could  I  would  be  forced  to  hate  her." 

Bourne  laughed.  "That  shows  how  badly  or 
186 


COBWEB 

baldly  I've  put  the  case,"  he  said.  "Why,  if  you 
ever  meet  Amelie,  you  may  not  love  her  at  first 
sight,  but  you  will  certainly  be  fascinated  by 
her  inaccessibility,  if  she  has  any  left,  like  a  high 
rock  that  takes  some  scaling.  And  if  you  could 
see  her  as  I  left  her,  with  all  her  glacial  precipices 
melting  off  her  in  floods  until  she  was  just  an 
armful  of  palpitating  and  sobbing  woman,  you 
would  adore  to  touch  and  feel  the  flame  of  her." 

"How  long  did  you  hold  her  like  that?"  asked 
Alloway. 

Bourne  glanced  at  her.  "Not  very  long,"  he 
said.  "Certainly  not  more  than  five  seconds." 

The  girl  nodded,  and  by  one  of  those  reversals 
which  seem  inconsequent,  but  never  are,  she 
took  up  the  trail  of  her  own  thought  where  she 
had  dropped  it.  "I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  "but  I 
can't  understand  a  woman  like  that.  It  isn't 
because  I  don't  want  to,  but  because  there  is  a 
lack  in  me.  Don't  you  suppose  that  is  why?" 

"No,"  said  Bourne.  "But  presently,"  he 
added,  "we  are  coming  to  a  sharp  turn.  If  we 
take  it,  we  break  in  on  Boies  and  Amelie  and  you 
can  see  for  yourself.  Aren't  you  curious? 
Don't  you  want  to  compare  the  daub  I  have 
painted  with  the  live  woman?" 

Alloway  did  not  answer  at  once;  she  thought 
over  her  words  even  more  carefully  than  usual. 

13  187 


COBWEB 

"If  I  were  you,"  she  said,  finally,  "I  wouldn't  go 
near  Long  Leg  Hole  to-day  or  any  other  day 
unless  your  friends  cry  to  you  for  help.  If  your 
reckless  plan  failed,  Boies  will  not  wish  to  see  you, 
especially  accompanied  by  a  stranger.  If  it  has 
succeeded,  then  Amelie  would  be  furious  at  our 
coming." 

"Why,  Alloway,"  cried  Bourne,  "you  are  a 
very  Solomon  for  wisdom!  Will  you  always 
answer  my  problems  as  clearly  as  that  and  as 
deeply?  You  are  right;  of  course  you  are  right." 

"It  is  always  ignoble  to  spy,  isn't  it?"  asked 
Alloway,  "to  watch  people's  movements  when 
they  don't  know  you  are  looking?  To  spy  upon 
hearts  or  souls  must  be  much  worse." 

"I  am  reproved,"  said  Bourne,  gravely. 

"Oh  no!"  cried  Alloway,  laying  her  hand  on 
his  arm.  "I  didn't  mean  it  that  way;  truly  I 
did  not.  I  was  making  a  rule  for  myself,  think- 
ing aloud  as  I  have  done  all  my  life;  seeking  'the 
even  balance  of  the  mind.' " 

"That's  a  fine  phrase,  Alloway,"  interrupted 
Bourne.  "'The  even  balance  of  the  mind.' 
Where  did  you  get  it?  Out  of  a  book?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"It  was  given  to  me  for  my  seventh  birthday." 
"Ah!"  exclaimed  Bourne.     "You  are   indeed 
wonderful;   you  never  come  back  with  the  ex- 

188 


COBWEB 

pected  answer.  Whoever  picked  so  big  a  gift 
for  such  a  small  child  must  have  known  her  very 
well." 

"It  is  a  game,"  said  the  girl,  pensively,  "like 
all  the  things  one  loves  best  to  do;  they  are  all 
games,  and  some  of  them  you  play  in  dead  earnest. 
The  even  balance  of  the  mind  is  the  most  serious 
game  of  all.  You  shut  your  eyes  tight,  and  hold 
out  your  hand,  so."  She  extended  her  arm 
rigidly  before  her.  "Then  you  put  all  the 
things  you  are  thinking  about  in  the  scales  and 
weigh  them.  Can  you  see  the  scales  hanging 
from  my  hand?  Sometimes  the  weight  of  a  hair 
makes  a  great  difference;  then  it  is  very  in- 
teresting." 

"Do  you  never  make  a  mistake?"  asked 
Bourne,  with  a  caressing  smile. 

"Of  course,"  said  Alloway,  "but  always  be- 
cause I  lack  knowledge.  If  one  only  knows  all 
the  facts  in  any  case,  the  scales  cannot  go  wrong, 
ever.  Knowledge  is  very  important." 

"I  think  you  are  the  wisest  woman  I  ever  met," 
said  Bourne. 

The  girl  glanced  at  him  pleadingly.  "You  are 
teasing  me,"  she  said.  "Please  do  not  tease  me." 

"Indeed  I'm  not,"  said  Bourne,  fervently. 
"You  act  as  though  no  one  had  ever  before 
adored  you,  as  though  you  weren't  accustomed  to 

189 


COBWEB 

abject  admiration.  You  are  like  a  flower  that 
has  lived  all  its  life  in  a  dark  wood  and  learns 
its  own  beauty  only  in  the  pools  of  the  worship- 
ing eyes  which  first  discover  it.  I  know  I'm 
treading  on  dangerous  ground.  Give  me  a 
chance  to  back  up  and  save  myself.  Tell  me, 
would  it  be  spying  to  look  at  Long  Leg  Hole 
from  two  miles  away?  " 

Alloway  pretended  to  measure  the  question 
thoughtfully.  "No,"  she  said,  finally,  "not 
from  two  miles  away." 

They  came  to  another  fork  in  the  way  and  she 
sat  suddenly  erect  in  her  seat.  "Which  road 
do  you  take?"  she  asked,  with  a  rapidity  of 
enunciation  which  in  anyone  else  would  have 
been  unnoticeable,  but  that  in  her  seemed  to 
verge  on  the  precipitous. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Bourne,  "you  are  impatient. 
What  do  you  think  your  clear  eyes  will  see  from 
two  miles  away?" 

He  took  the  left  road,  and  the  girl  once  more 
sank  back  comfortably  in  her  seat.  "Don't 
settle  down  too  comfortably,"  he  advised.  "We 
passed  the  hidden  entrance  to  Long  Leg  Hole  a 
mile  ago  and  here  is  where  we  get  out." 

He  drove  the  car  off  the  narrow  clay  road  deep 
into  grass  and  bushes,  shut  off  the  engine, 
jumped  from  his  seat,  and  hurried  around  to  help 

190 


COBWEB 

the  girl  to  alight.  She  stood  up,  raised  her  arms 
and  stretched,  her  slanted  eyes  looking  smilingly 
into  his. 

"That  was  very  rude,  wasn't  it?"  she  asked  as 
she  gave  him  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

"Not  rude,"  said  Bourne,  holding  her  hand 
tightly.  "I  like  to  think  it  was  only  intimate. 
Now  jump."  With  a  quick  movement  he  slipped 
his  arm  around  her  waist  and  swept  her  in  a  half 
circle  through  the  air,  letting  her  down  gently 
at  the  edge  of  the  road. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  delighted  as  a  child,  "how 
strong  you  are!" 

"Take  off  your  coat,"  he  said,  laughing.  "We 
are  in  for  a  stiff  climb.  Here,  give  it  to  me.  I'll 
carry  it  for  you." 

He  led  the  way  through  some  bars  to  a  grass- 
grown  field  road  which  almost  immediately  faded 
completely.  They  were  at  the  foot  of  a  steep 
rise  which  lifted  suddenly  before  them  in  a  hog- 
backed  incline  strewn  with  stones  and  stunted 
evergreens  and  clothed  in  the  short,  dry  grass  of 
late  autumn.  It  was  the  hill  of  High  Rock. 

"Let  us  run  to  the  very  top,"  cried  Alloway, 
as  she  started  off  at  a  great  pace. 

Bourne  replaced  the  two  bars  he  had  taken 
down  for  her  and  folio  wed ,  with  a  strong  but 
measured  stride,  far  in  her  wake.  He  was 

191 


COBWEB 

smiling  indulgently,  secure  in  the  thought  that 
his  methodical  assault  of  the  long  climb  would 
soon  overtake  and  outstrip  her  haste ;  but  he  was 
reckoning  once  more  with  the  unknown.  The 
girl  stepped  strongly  from  stone  to  stone,  leaped 
dewberry  patches  as  though  well  aware  of  the 
clinging  thorns  ambushed  beneath  their  frost- 
painted  leaves,  and  thrust  herself  sideways,  but 
with  an  onward  surge,  between  the  branches  of 
encroaching  firs  and  cedars.  Bourne  stopped  at 
last  and  watched  her.  She  was  like  the  em- 
bodied spirit  of  a  flying  wind.  He  imagined 
her  blood  as  being  boisterous  in  her  veins,  carry- 
ing her  up  and  over  and  through  every  obstacle 
which  opposed  her  progress.  She  reached  the 
brow  of  the  hill  and  turned  to  greet  him  with  a 
derisive  upflung  arm. 

He  joined  her  at  his  leisure,  not  looking  where 
he  stepped,  but  with  his  eyes  fastened  steadily 
upon  her  tall,  lithe  figure  silhouetted  against  the 
clear  blue  sky.  When  he  reached  her  he  found 
her  pale  cheeks  aflame  and  her  eyes  flashing 
merrily.  But  her  parted  lips  were  drawing  the 
long,  quivering,  telltale  breath  of  the  human 
frame  pressed  to  the  breaking  point,  triumphant 
alone  by  the  miracle  of  youth.  Her  bosom  was 
rising  and  falling  with  a  shivering  flutter  at  the 
peak  of  each  long-drawn  inflation. 

192 


COBWEB 

He  put  his  arm  gently  about  her  shoulders. 
"You  are  a  wicked  girl,"  he  said.  "You  must 
never  do  that  again.  Get  your  breath  and  then 
promise  me.  Will  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  from  side  to  side.  '  'What 
does  it  matter,"  she  gasped,  "a  little  breath? 
I  did  it;  I  ran  all  the  way  to  the  top;  I  beat  you 
disgracefully.  You  were  lazy.  All  the  things 
that  are  done  with  a  terrific  swing,  all  the  tours  de 
force  in  the  world,  are  worth  while  for  themselves 
alone.  Aren't  they?" 

They  turned,  with  his  arm  still  around  her 
shoulders,  and  walked  slowly,  as  though  by  one 
consent,  to  the  great  rock  perched  precariously 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  hill,  the  same  rock  which 
had  beckoned  to  Boies  Stephen  two  evenings 
before,  had  drawn  him  all  the  way  from  Long 
Leg  Hole,  and  then  had  promptly  flung  him  back 
again.  On  its  precipitous  face  it  held  a  ledge,  a 
hollow,  which  had  cupped  stray  particles  of  soil 
until  there  was  enough  to  nurture  moss  and  a 
flush  of  fine  grass,  still  verdant  with  the  deep 
green  of  summer.  A  crevice  ran  slantingly  down 
to  this  cozy  niche,  and  with  his  feet  braced  on 
its  sharp  edge  Bourne  reached  up  for  Alloway. 

He  lowered  her  to  the  ledge,  which  was  com- 
fortably deep  and  level.  There  they  sat,  side  by 
side,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  great  silence  let  their 

193 


COBWEB 

eyes  sweep  out  and  across  the  breath-taking 
panorama  of  gorgeously  painted  hill  and  vale, 
flaming  forest,  warm,  brown  field,  and  far-away 
blue  water.  Suddenly  the  girl  sighed  deeply, 
turned  her  head,  and  hid  her  face  against  his 
shoulder. 

"I  can't  look  any  more,"  she  murmured.  "It 
is  too  wind-swept  and  flaunting,  too  beautiful,  too 
gorgeously  perfect.  It  hurts  my  heart." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  close. 
Her  warm  flesh  seemed  to  creep  through  her 
blouse  to  meet  his  touch.  He  could  feel  all  the 
delicate  pulsations  of  the  mechanism  of  life,  the 
surge  of  her  turbulent  blood,  the  rise  and  fall  of 
her  troubled  bosom,  the  agitated  beating  of  her 
heart,  and  the  less  easily  distinguished  stirrings 
of  the  muscles  which  come  into  hidden  play  in 
harmonious  accompaniment  to  every  deep-seated 
emotion. 

"Oh,  Alloway,"  he  whispered,  "I  do  love  you. 
My  love  for  you  is  like  that;  it  hurts  my  heart. 
My  darling,  don't  bruise  me,  don't  fight  me, 
don't  hurt  me.  Lift  your  face.  Let  me  love 
you  like  a  flowing  river." 

She  raised  her  head  slowly  and  gave  her  eyes 
to  his.  For  an  instant  their  gazes  interlocked 
and  then  seemed  to  pass  the  physical  bar- 
riers of  the  soul,  merging  into  a  single  and 

194 


COBWEB 

unfathomable  communion.  He  felt  a  fleeting 
relaxation  of  her  whole  body,  a  tender  yielding 
of  the  fortress  of  the  flesh,  that  struck  to  the 
sources  of  his  being,  exhilarating  and  intoxicat- 
ing him  as  with  the  first  draught  of  a  too  heady 
wine.  He  drew  her  up  to  him  with  a  strong  firm 
hold  and  kissed  her  mouth. 

Her  lips  were  incredibly  soft,  yet  firm;  they 
had  the  resilient  consistency  of  the  living  portal 
of  youth.  Their  generous  warmth,  lavishly  sur- 
rendered, enveloped  and  embraced  him,  as  if  in 
giving  all,  they  assumed  an  unbounded  and  per- 
petual possession.  Through  their  enforced  si- 
lence they  seemed  to  proclaim  deafeningly  that 
no  other  woman  in  all  the  worlds  of  fact  or  fancy 
could  ever  again  thus  flow  through  his  veins  or 
receive  him  more  completely  into  her  eternal 
keeping. 

To  his  own  amazement  he  felt  no  surge  of 
selfish  exultation,  but  a  veritable  awe  with  a 
touch  of  reverence  in  it.  Not  for  the  person  of 
the  girl.  She  was  too  human  for  that,  too  warm, 
too  tangible  to  sustain  any  ethereal  illusion.  It 
was  before  the  vast  vistas  she  opened  on  the  old 
basic  verities  of  faith,  trust,  hope,  and  the 
supernal  abnegation  of  a  love  that  humbles  itself 
not  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  but  in  the  star  dust 
of  the  bowl  of  heaven,  that  his  spirit  bowed. 

195 


COBWEB 

Without  need  of  words  she  said  to  him  in  her  kiss : 
"I  love  you.  I  give  you  myself  utterly.  Take 
and  hold  me  as  treasure,  or  take  and  break  me  as 
plaything;  the  gift  I  give  you  knows  no  retaking." 

He  released  her  gently  and  gazed  down  into 
her  face,  grown  dead  white  with  the  intensity  of 
her  emotion.  Her  eyes  were  wide  open,  swim- 
ming with  light,  depth,  and  moisture.  They 
looked  as  though  she  had  been  careering  on 
wings  above  the  clouds;  as  if  she  had  just  swept 
down  from  a  breathless  journey  amid  crowding 
constellations.  She  narrowed  them,  brought 
them  home  slowly  to  the  present  world,  glanced 
about  her  with  a  startled  expression,  looked 
finally  into  his  face,  so  near  to  her  own,  smiled 
with  a  sudden  blinding  radiance,  threw  both 
arms  around  his  neck  and  hugged  him  until, 
half  strangled,  he  begged  hoarsely  for  mercy. 

"You  are  very,  very  strong,"  he  gasped. 

"Am  I  not?"  she  said,  proudly,  and  then 
threw  up  her  head  and  laughed  her  gay  laugh  of  a 
brook  set  free. 

With  bodies  close  together  and  hands  tightly 
clasped,  they  sat  in  silence.  Their  smiling, 
measuring  glances  examined  the  scene  spread 
out  beneath  their  feet.  The  shadows  of  distant 
trees  drew  steadily  in  toward  their  own  causes 
until  Alloway,  noting  their  creeping  movement, 

196 


COBWEB 

seized  Ritt's  arm  with  her  free  hand  and  whis- 
pered: "Look  at  the  shadows  down  yonder. 
Watch  them.  Do  you  see  what  they  are  doing, 
dear?  The  sun  is  so  hot  they  are  crawling  into 
the  shade  I" 

Bourne  laughed  aloud.  "I  hate  to  spoil  such 
a  darling  fancy,  but  they  aren't,  you  know;  not 
at  this  time  of  year.  They  are  merely  swinging 
around,  boxing  the  compass  before  the  winter 
voyage." 

Alloway  drew  quickly  erect.  "At  last,"  she 
said,  "I'm  going  to  learn  what  that  foolish- 
sounding  phrase  really  means.  Please  tell  me 
and  please  hurry.  You  would  if  you  knew  how 
my  mind  has  been  jumping  for  years  between  a 
conception  of  one  man  standing  with  his  fists 
up  before  a  goggling  compass,  and  another  with 
a  hammer  and  a  mouthful  of  nails  preparing  to 
box  it  in  a  real  box.  Which  is  right?" 

"Neither,"  said  Bourne. 
"What  does  it  mean,  then,  to  box  a  compass?" 
asked  Alloway. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Bourne.  "It  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  ships  turning  all  the  way  around 
as  they  start  on  a  long  voyage;  but  I  never  wor- 
ried to  find  out  just  what." 

"You  don't  know?"  said  Alloway,  sadly. 
"A  big  man  like  you!  Ritt,  I  could  cry." 

197 


COBWEB 

"Could  you?"  said  Bourne.  "Please  do; 
please  cry  because  I  can't  tell  you  here  and  now 
about  boxing  the  compass." 

"Shall  I?"  said  Alloway,  and  the  next  moment, 
for  no  reason  and  for  all  reasons,  the  tears  were 
pouring  down  her  still  face. 


Chapter  Eleven 

BOURNE  leaped  to  his  feet.    "Stop  it!"  he 
said.  " It's  uncanny.  Can  you  always  do  that?" 

She  reached  up  and  caught  his  hand.  "Oh 
no,  Ritt,  truly  not.  Only  to-day,  dear." 

He  drew  her  up  beside  him,  took  out  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  carefully  dried  her  eyes.  "If  it's 
only  for  to-day,"  he  said,  softly,  "why,  that's 
different;  it's  adorable.  Now  will  you  promise 
to  stay  here  very  quietly  while  I  rush  back  to  the 
car?  I  forgot  something." 

"Stay  here  all  alone?"  asked  Alloway.  "Don't 
you  want  me  to  go  with  you?  " 

"Shall  I  tell  you  very  frankly  just  the  way  my 
mind  has  been  working  while  I  wasn't  watching 
it?" 

"Oh  do!"  said  Alloway. 

"Well,  it  suggested  without  any  help  on  my 
part,  that  if  I  go  alone  I  may  kiss  you  good-by 
and  kiss  you  again  when  I  come." 

"I  see,"  said  Alloway,  thoughtfully.  "I 
suppose  I  had  better  stay." 

He  was  standing  a  little  above  her,  and  caught 
her  off  her  feet  to  draw  her  up  to  him  and  kiss 
her;  then  he  let  her  down  hastily  and  turned 
to  go. 

199 


COBWEB 

"Wait,  Ritt,"  cried  Alloway,  a  little  breath- 
lessly; "wait  for  me.  I've — I've  changed  my 
mind." 

She  joined  him  on  the  summit  of  the  rock 
and  they  laughed  into  each  other's  eyes.  "My 
darling,"  said  Bourne,  "you  will  never  again 
have  to  trick  me  into  kissing  you.  You  did  it 
for  the  sake  of  mischief,  I  know,  just  for  the  joke 
of  it,  but,  unfortunately,  the  way  of  your  doing 
it  has  made  me  love  you  just  a  little  more  and  I 
tell  you  that  from  now  on  I  am  really  and  truly 
a  madman.  I  can't  conceive  of  going  to  the  car 
without  you.  I  can't  believe  that  I'll  ever  again 
be  away  from  you  for  an  hour,  and  if  God,  who 
is  almighty  and  could  do  it  if  it's  really  best  for 
all  concerned,  doesn't  keep  this  night  from 
falling,  I  don't  know  what  you  and  I  are  to  do." 

"We  might  sit  up  for  to-night,"  said  Alloway, 
lightly,  playing  with  a  loose  button  on  his  coat, 
"but  what  about  to-morrow  night  and  the  night 
after  that?" 

"By  to-morrow  night,"  said  Bourne,  quite 
gravely,  "we'll  be  married.  I'm  only  worrying 
about  to-night." 

Alloway  looked  at  his  unsmiling  face  and  her 
own  grew  suddenly  older.  She  sat  down  on 
the  flat  rock  and  drew  him  to  a  seat  beside  her. 

"Listen,  dear,"  she  said.  "We  won't  make  a 
200 


COBWEB 

joke  of  marriage  ever,  you  and  I.  We  won't 
laugh  at  our  own;  we  won't  think  lightly  of  any- 
one else's.  You  have  been  terribly  afraid  of 
marriage  and  I  have  never  been  afraid.  You 
have  known  too  much,  and  perhaps  I  have 
known  too  little." 

"No!  No!"  said  Bourne,  crushing  her  fingers. 
"It's  just  that.  I  don't  want  you  to  know 
more.  I'm  not  laughing;  I'm  in  such  dead  ear- 
nest that  I'm  trembling  for  fear  of  making  a 
stumbling  step.  I  wish  you  as  you  are;  I  love 
you  as  you  are.  I  want  you  to  love  me  not  as  I 
am  to  a  hundred  friends,  but  as  you  have  found 
me,  as  I  live  only  in  your  heart.  Please,  Allo- 
way.  I  beg  you,  Alloway,  just  marry  me  this 
once  to-morrow  and  you  shall  have  your  way 
forever  after." 

"Oh,  Ritt,"  cried  Alloway,  smiling  through 
moist  eyes,  "don't  you  know  how  funny  a  thing 
you  have  said?  How  many  times  can  I  marry 
you,  my  dear  boy,  to-morrow  or  ever? " 

"I  have  said  nothing  funny,"  replied  Bourne, 
doggedly.  "You  know  very  well  what  I  meant. 
I  do  not  wish  to  present  you  to  my  friends  to  be 
pawed  over  and  manhandled  and  talked  over  and 
under  and  inside  out.  I  cannot  bear  the  thought 
of  being  separated  from  you  for  one  moment 
more  than  is  absolutely  necessary.  I  don't  want 

201 


COBWEB 

you  to  meet  a  lot  of  men  just  to  find  out  if  you 
really  love  me  best;  I  would  be  terrified  day  and 
night  for  fear  you  didn't.  I  don't  want  even 
to  be  engaged  to  you  and  have  everybody  be  nice 
to  you  just  to  look  you  over  and  ask  you  a 
million  and  one  questions." 

With  every  word  he  said  Alloway's  eyes 
opened  wider  and  her  face  assumed  an  extraor- 
dinary statuesque  sternness,  as  though  it  were 
indeed  carved  from  marble. 

"No,"  she  said,  when  he  paused,  "never  that; 
I  wouldn't  want  that,  either." 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't,"  said  Bourne.  "I 
don't  know  how  I  knew  it,  but  I  did.  I  have 
always  believed  that  a  girl's  wedding  day 
belonged  to  herself  and  that  it  should  follow 
every  twist  and  turning  of  her  heart's  desire. 
But  what  have  you  and  I  to  do  with  striped 
awnings,  curious  eyes,  orange  blossoms,  flowing 
veils,  and  a  strip  of  Turkey-red  carpet?  To-day 
is  our  wedding  day  and  this  is  our  marriage." 

He  swept  his  arm  around  in  a  large  gesture 
which  took  in  rock,  hill,  earth,  sky,  and  gleaming 
water.  Her  eyes  followed  the  arc  of  his  hand. 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said.  "Of  course 
I  have  dreamed  a  little  of  orange  blossoms  and 
Fve  handled  a  dear  old  veil  of  lace,  very  yellow 
now,  and  wondered  and  wondered.  But  you  are 

202 


COBWEB 

right;  those  are  things  that  do  not  matter, 
especially  under  the  eyes  only  of  strangers." 

Her  lips  trembled  a  little  on  the  last  word  and 
Bourne  turned  and  caught  her  to  him.  "My 
dear,"  he  said,  "if  it  matters  to  you  only  a  little, 
if  not  having  them  will  plant  the  tiniest  seed  of 
regret,  we'll  get  the  orange  blossoms  and  the  veil." 

She  smiled  wistfully  and  shook  her  head. 

"Look,"  she  said,  pointing  just  beyond  the 
rock.  "Mushrooms!  The  symbol  of  Cheou-lao 
himself,  god  of  longevity.  See  him,  Ritt, 
mounted  on  his  stag,  venerable,  gentle,  and 
smiling.  He  is  looking  at  you;  he  will  bring 
long  life  and  luck  to  you  because  he  holds  in  his 
hand  the  fruit  of  the  tree  fan-tao,  which  blossoms 
every  three  thousand  years  and  yields  its  peaches 
only  three  thousand  years  after.  Can't  you  see 
him,  dear?  He  has  a  monstrous  high  head  and 
long,  white  eyebrows  and  white  hair.  There  he 
goes,  down  the  gray  hill  and  into  the  edge  of  the 
wood.  I  can  follow  him  still.  Don't  waken  me; 
let  me  dream  and  dream  for  fear  of  the  impossible 
thing  you  are  asking  me,  for  fear  of  hurting  you.'* 

"Dream  as  far  and  as  often  as  you  like,"  said 
Bourne.  "If  I  can  help  it,  I  shall  never  waken 
you.  I  ask  you  nothing  impossible;  stay  by 
my  side,  dream  through  to-morrow." 

"Suppose  I  were  mad,  too,  and  said  yes,"  said 
14  203 


COBWEB 

the  girl.  "Just  let  us  start  with  that  and  take 
step  by  step  and  see  how  soon  we  would  crash 
against  a  wall.  This  moment,  I  am  not  young 
any  more,  Ritt;  I  have  grown  older  than  you. 
See  how  I  have  forgotten  my  fancies  and  how  my 
mind  bumps  against  things  like  hateful  hotels, 
packing,  curious  eyes  and  guessing  whispers, 
trains,  new  furniture,  and  then  all  that  unknown 
side  of  it  which  is  you.  The  first  step,  I  go 
back  to  the  hotel  for  the  night." 

"I  take  you  at  your  word,"  said  Bourne.  "I 
will  be  practical.  Is  there  anyone  in  the  world 
who  can  stop  you  from  marrying  me — anyone,  I 
mean,  who  has  rights  over  you?" 

Alloway's  lips  trembled.  "No  one,"  she 
whispered. 

"Forgive  me,  Alloway,"  said  Bourne,  gravely. 
"I  don't  wish  to  trespass,  dear,  but  I  must,  just 
for  a  second.  You  mean  that  you  have  no  father 
and  no  mother?  " 

She  hung  her  head  and  shook  it  quickly  from 
side  to  side.  Already  he  knew  her  so  well  that 
he  could  feel  her  determination  not  to  weep, 
not  to  give  way  to  grief  or  any  other  emotion 
which  might  distract  her  from  weighing  this 
matter  of  marriage,  this  bridge-burning  venture 
so  swiftly  thrust  upon  her,  in  the  even  balance  of 
the  mind.  She  raised  clear  eyes,  profoundly 

204 


COBWEB 

deep,  to  his;    her  face  was  deathly  white,  but 
possessed  of  an  astonishing  serenity. 

"I  never  knew  my  mother;  my  father  is  dead," 
she  said,  with  measured  deliberation.  For  a 
single  instant  her  countenance  seemed  to  gleam 
as  through  a  torn  veil;  a  flash  of  elemental  fire  lit 
up  its  mobile  features  and  then  died,  leaving  her 
brow  once  more  placid,  her  eyes  alive  and  con- 
scious only  of  the  present. 

"I,  too,  lost  my  mother  many  years  ago,"  said 
Bourne,  quickly,  "but  I  still  have  my  father.  I 
live  with  him.  He  is  a  wonderful  man.  He 
will  know  you  and  love  you  from  across  the  room 
before  ever  you  have  opened  your  lips." 

Alloway  shook  her  head  doubtfully.  "He  will 
hate  me  if  I  do  this  thing.  I  am  glad,  for  you,  that 
you  still  have  him."  She  paused,  halted  by  an  in- 
stinctive delicacy  from  completing  her  thought. 

"You  mean,"  said  Bourne,  with  equal  in- 
tuition, "that  you  would  have  been  happier  if 
we  had  been  both  quite,  quite  alone." 

She  nodded  her  head.  "If  it  had  happened  to 
be  so,  I  could  not  have  denied  you." 

"I  can  see  that,"  said  Bourne,  fairly.  "It 
would  have  robbed  you  of  every  argument, 
settled  every  doubt;  but  when  you  know  my 
father  you  will  give  thanks  in  your  heart  that 
you  couldn't  wish  him  quite  away." 

205 


COBWEB 

"He  will  ask  questions,"  said  Alloway. 

"I  will  engage  for  him,"  said  Bourne,  promptly, 
"that  he  will  take  my  pledge  and  never  ask  you  a 
single  question  which  you  will  not  be  glad  to 


answer." 


"If  we  do  it  without  telling  him,  he  will  never 
forgive  me." 

"But  I  will  tell  him,"  said  Bourne.  "I'll  tell 
him  to-night." 

"Then  he'U  be  there." 

"No,  dear;  not  if  you  don't  wish  it.  He'll 
only  arrange  all  the  details  for  us  down  at  the 
City  Hall  and  see  that  the  papers  make  little  or 
perhaps  nothing  of  the  news.  That  is  saying  a 
great  deal,  and  I  am  not  bragging  when  I  say 
that  J.  E.,  my  father,  is  the  one  man  I  know 
who  could  give  you  the  wedding  present  of 
keeping  the  news  out  altogether  if  you  wish 
it." 

"Could  he  do  that?"  asked  Alloway,  hope- 
fully, clasping  her  hands. 

Bourne  nodded.  "I'll  make  him  promise;  I'll 
let  you  off  for  a  week  if  he  doesn't  promise." 

"And  after  that  part  is  over,"  said  Alloway, 
"after  we  are  duly  and  properly  married,  what 
then?" 

"We  will  go  straight  to  the  house  in  Murray 
Hill,  my  father's  house  and  mine,"  said  Bourne. 

206 


COBWEB 

"It  is  a  big  home,  so  big  that  you  will  be  able  to 
find  what  you  wish  there.  Before  we  do  any- 
thing else,  I  wish  to  wrap  it  around  you,  my 
home,  so  that  wherever  we  go,  whatever  we  do, 
you  will  sometimes  sigh  and  say,  'Ritt,  let's  go 
straight  home;  I  am  tired.'  It's  that  kind  of  a 
place — a  great  big  mothering  house  with  not  a 
single  empty  spot  in  it  anywhere,  because  people 
have  lived  in  it  and  loved  it  so  long." 

"I  will  go  with  you,  Ritt,"  said  Alloway, 
simply,  laying  her  two  hands,  palms  up,  in  his. 
He  dropped  his  face  in  them.  She  let  it  lie 
there  for  a  moment;  then  she  took  her  hands 
away  and  with  an  encircling  movement  of  in- 
describable tenderness  drew  his  head  to  rest  on 
her  knees  and  passed  her  fingers  soothingly 
through  his  hair. 

Huddled  thus  together  on  the  top  of  High 
Rock,  they  sat  for  half  an  hour  on  the  crown  of 
the  world,  caring  not  who  saw  and  feeling  all 
those  delicate,  deep-seated,  and  maddening  pul- 
sations which  hover  busily  through  the  blessed 
union  of  youth  and  love.  Their  blood  raced 
hither  and  thither  as  though  through  veins  made 
common,  and  filled  their  breasts  with  the  self- 
same pain  of  pleasure,  choking  on  its  own 
greedy  haste,  demanding  that  they  hear  the  long- 
drawn  inner  cry  which  sounds  but  once  full 
207 


COBWEB 

throated  in  the  human  heart  and  evermore  is 
merely  echoed. 

It  was  Alloway  who  finally  broke  the  silence. 
"Ritt,"  she  said,  "I'm  sorry,  dear,  but  I'm  faint 
with  hunger." 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  snatched  out  his 
watch.  "And  no  wonder!"  he  cried.  "That's 
what  I  was  going  to  fetch  from  the  car,  happy 
years  ago!  Lunch!" 

"There's  really  a  luncheon  in  the  car?"  cried 
Alloway,  her  face  brightening  to  an  everyday 
cheerfulness.  "That  is  wonderful  news.  You 
see,  dear,  I'm  so  disgracefully  healthy  that  the 
flesh  and  bone  of  me  simply  wails  when  feeding 
time  goes  by  and  no  bottle.  Do  you  love  me  less 
for  lying  to  you  about  it?  " 

"I  love  you  more  and  more  and  more,"  said 
Bourne,  "partly  because  no  one  else  would  have 
thought  of  confessing  so  frankly,  but  most  of  all 
because  I'm  as  hungry  as  you  are.  And  we  are 
not  the  only  ones  who  think  of  food.  Look  over 
there  at  Long  Leg  Hole.  You  know  that's 
what  we  came  up  here  to  do.  See  the  smoke? 
Somebody  is  getting  ready  to  cook  a  fish  supper, 
and  it  must  be  Amelie.  I'd  like  to  take  you  over 
there,  just  show  you  to  her,  and  whisk  you  away 
before  she  could  catch  her  breath." 

He  looked  at  Alloway  questioningly,  the  pride 
208 


COBWEB 

of  possession  shining  in  his  eyes,  but  she  shook 
her  head,  took  his  hand,  and  led  him  slowly  down 
the  hill.  "Not  to-day,"  she  said.  "To-day  I 
want  to  be  alone  with  you  and  with  myself." 

When  Bourne  reached  home  he  was  disap- 
pointed to  learn  that  he  would  have  to  dine 
alone.  He  took  a  bath,  changed  into  fresh 
clothes,  and  when  the  lonely  meal  was  over 
gave  orders  that  he  be  informed  of  his  father's 
arrival.  He  went  immediately  to  the  library, 
sat  down  and  tried  to  read,  but  his  thoughts 
dragged  him  again  and  again  to  his  feet.  He 
paced  up  and  down  feverishly,  unconscious  of  the 
chilly  air  which  seeped  through  an  open  window. 
The  log  fire  lighted  in  the  wide-open  hearth 
seemed  to  him  wholly  unnecessary,  and  when 
Simon  slipped  noiselessly  in  to  replenish  it  he 
waved  him  away. 

"You  are  sure  my  father  hasn't  come  in, 
Simon?"  he  asked,  nervously. 

"Quite  sure,  sir,"  answered  Simon.  "I  will 
stay  up  myself  and  tell  him  you  are  waiting  here 
to  speak  to  him.  You  need  not  worry,  Master 
Ritt.  I  hope  there  is  no  trouble." 

When  Simon  committed  one  of  his  rare  rever- 
sions to  a  form  of  address  abandoned  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  young  master's  coming  of  age,  it  was 
an  indication  that  he  stood  willing  to  serve  not 

209 


COBWEB 

only  as  butler,  but  as  mentor  and  ancient  friend. 
Bourne  had  long  since  recognized  the  old  man's 
informal  right  of  way  to  his  own  heart,  a  priv- 
ilege all  the  more  readily  granted  because  it  had 
never  been  abused. 

"Trouble,  Simon?"  he  cried,  the  clouds  lifting 
momentarily  from  his  brow.  "It's  just  the  op- 
posite, you  old  scout.  I'm  the  happiest  man 
in  the  world;  that's  what's  the  matter  with  me. 
You'll  know  all  about  it  to-morrow." 

"I  see,  sir,"  said  Simon,  the  blood  flaming  red 
in  his  pink  cheeks.  "I  understand,  and  wish 
you  luck,  sir,  and  if  I  may  say  so,  it's  high  time." 
He  reverted  promptly  to  the  butler  and  asked, 
"Shall  I  leave  the  window  open?" 

"Please,"  said  Bourne,  and  resumed  his  pacing 
to  and  fro. 

On  the  hill,  with  Alloway's  hand  in  his,  he  had 
seen  his  father  clearly;  he  had  been  able  to 
summon  at  will  J.  E.'s  kindly  and  understanding 
side  to  hear  and  judge  the  astounding  proposition 
which  he  was  about  to  put  before  him.  But  as 
the  moment  approached  when  he  would  have  to 
say  in  words  what  his  heart  so  fully  understood, 
he  began  to  see  how  preposterous  his  demands 
might  easily  appear.  For  years  he  had  laughed 
with  the  rest  of  the  world  at  young  men  who  said 
in  their  ordinary  infatuations,  "When  you  see 

210 


COBWEB 

her,  if  you  only  see  her,  it  will  be  all  right." 
How  could  be  persuade  so  shrewd  a  man  as  his 
father  that  such  a  being  as  he  believed  Alloway 
to  be  actually  existed,  that  she  was  not  the  tune- 
worn  illusion  of  every  lover's  mind? 

When  his  father  finally  entered  the  room,  un- 
noticed, at  a  late  hour,  he  found  Ritt  sitting 
despondently  in  a  big  chair,  his  head,  usually 
erect,  fallen  forward  and  his  hands  drooping 
listlessly  at  the  wrists.  John  Bourne  stood  for  a 
long  moment  looking  at  his  son.  The  heavy 
features  of  his  face,  dominated  by  the  small, 
brilliant  eyes  and  ponderous  nose,  softened  to  an 
almost  feminine  tenderness,  and  it  was  this  ex- 
pression, lingering  beyond  the  thoughts  that  had 
caused  it,  which  Ritt  surprised  on  his  father's 
face  when  J.  E.  spoke. 

"It's  not  as  bad  as  all  that,  is  it?"  he  asked. 
"Tell  me." 

Ritt  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stared  at  his  father; 
again  the  clouds  lifted  from  his  brow.  "Dad," 
he  said,  "it's  simply  wonderful  that  this  part  of 
you  should  have  come  to  me.  I  don't  want  to 
be  measured  by  those  gimlet  eyes  of  yours  to- 
night, not  once,  not  for  even  a  doubting  flash. 
I  want  to  be  taken  on  trust;  I  want  to  be  be- 
lieved outright  just  because  you  love  me  and  for 
no  other  visible  reason  in  the  world." 

211 


COBWEB 

"Hush,  boy!"  said  J.  E.,  smiling.  "Let's  sit 
down.  Whatever  it  is,  let's  take  this  great  thing 
quietly  as  it  deserves.  To  put  your  mind  at  rest 
I'll  tell  you  now,  out  of  faith  in  what  I've  tried  to 
make  of  you,  that  whatever  you  ask  I'll  give,  and 
give  freely.  If  that  proves  to  be  a  mistake,  why 
let  it  fall  on  both  our  heads.  You  are  my  son.'* 

Ritt  grasped  his  father's  arms,  so  flabby  to 
look  at,  so  incredibly  firm  and  anchored  in 
strength  to  the  touch.  Tears  rose  to  his  eyes; 
he  gripped  with  all  his  might,  but  did  not  try  to 
answer  at  once  with  words.  Finally  he  turned 
and  sat  down  with  a  deep,  happy  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  can  tell  you,"  he  said,  half  to  himself. 
"Of  course  I  can  tell  you." 

"Of  course  you  can,"  said  J.  E.,  cutting  and 
lighting  a  long  black  cigar  with  deliberate  care. 
"You  are  married;  let's  start  with  that." 

"No,"  said  Ritt,  taken  aback.  "That  is,  not 
quite.  But  it's  almost  as  bad."  Then  he 
blurted  out,  "The  whole  and  the  worst  of  it  is 
that  I  want  you  to  fix  everything  for  me  to  be 
married  at  the  City  Hall  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow 
and  then  perform  the  small  miracle  of  keeping 
the  thing  out  of  the  papers." 

"That's  not  such  a  very  tall  order,"  said  J.  E., 
thoughtfully.  "I  feel  sure  we  can  arrange  the 
details.  Now  why?" 

212 


COBWEB 

Ritt  went  back  to  the  moment  of  the  tear  in 
the  elevator;  he  tried  to  describe  Alloway  as  he 
had  seen  her  then  and  not  in  the  full  light  of  sub- 
sequent knowledge.  He  made  his  father  party 
to  the  thoughts  the  single  sight  of  the  girl  had 
aroused,  and  fairly  excited  him  with  a  dramatic 
account  of  the  encounter  in  the  revolving  glass 
door  and  of  the  astounding  advent  of  the  second 
tear. 

"I  was  ready  that  time,  dad,"  he  said.  "Some- 
thing in  me  shouted  at  my  brain  what  to  do.  I 
kept  right  on  going,  came  out  on  the  sidewalk 
almost  at  her  side,  saw  an  expression  of  despair 
and  do-or-die  in  her  face,  and  took  off  my  hat 
and  said  quite  clearly  so  the  crowd  could  hear 
if  it  wanted  to,  'Please  forgive  me;  I'm  sorry 
I  was  late.' " 

"Good!"  said  J.  E.  "I'm  proud  of  you. 
And  what  did  she  do?" 

"She  took  my  arm,  walked  in  to  a  table  with 
me,  caught  up  a  glass  of  water,  drank  it  gulpily 
as  though  it  was  only  just  in  time,  thanked  me, 
and  said  she  would  have  to  go." 

"But  you  didn't  let  her,"  interjected  J.  E. 

Ritt  shook  his  head  violently.  "I  didn't,"  he 
said,  "and  I  never  shall." 

It  took  him  an  hour  to  recount  the  wonders  of 
all  the  girl  had  talked  about,  and,  when  he  had 

213 


COBWEB 

finished,  J.  E.  joined  the  blunt  tips  of  his  fingers 
and  thumbs  and  sent  clouds  of  smoke  through  the 
arch  thus  formed,  while  he  collected  and  sorted 
his  impressions. 

"That  was  last  night,"  said  Bourne  the 
younger,  preparing  to  bring  the  narrative  up  to 
date  with  an  account  of  the  greatest  day  of  his 
life. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  his  father.  "You've 
been  traveling  fast  in  exceptionally  good  com- 
pany; now  give  your  old  man  a  chance  to  catch 
up.  I  can  picture  the  girl  as  clearly  as  I  wish  to 
before  I  see  her  in  the  flesh.  What  I  would  like 
to  do  is  to  perceive  her  mind.  I  see  by  your 
smile  that  you  think  such  an  enterprise  is  hope- 
less, but  it  isn't.  I've  learned  that  just  as  there 
are  only  half  a  dozen  watch  movements  known 
to  man  hi  spite  of  the  millions  of  watches  the 
world  has  produced,  so  there  are  certainly  not 
half  a  dozen  types  of  mind,  the  variation  from 
which  in  any  individual  is  merely  in  the  degree 
of  abnormal  development  or  along  the  fixed  line 
of  perfection.  Now  tell  me,  did  you  find  out  in 
all  that  talk  how  the  girl  happened  to  come 
uninvited  to  your  ball?" 

"No,"  said  Ritt,  after  a  pause.  "Now  that 
you  call  my  attention  to  it,  I  remember  I 
didn't." 

214 


COBWEB 

"Well,"  said  his  father,  complacently,  "I 
know  why;  I  know  because  I  have  fixed  the 
type  of  her  mind." 

His  son  sat  up  sharply.  "Why  was  it?"  he 
asked. 

"That,"  replied  his  father,  "you  will  have  to 
find  out  for  yourself.  Because  you  have  suc- 
ceeded in  making  me  intensely  anxious  to  meet 
this  extraordinary  young  person  is  reason  enough 
for  me  to  start  right  now  playing  fair  to  both 
sides.  Go  on  with  your  story." 

As  he  looked  back  on  the  day  it  seemed  quite 
incredible  to  Ritt  that  a  dozen  hours  should  hold 
so  much  of  history  and  of  life.  He  thought  it 
would  surely  take  all  night  to  lead  his  father 
through  the  far  reaches  and  the  quirks  and  turns 
of  the  blissfully  long  road  he  had  followed  hand 
in  hand  with  Alloway,  yet  always  toward  her. 
But  when  he  actually  began  to  talk  he  found  that 
a  single  word  often  covers,  though  it  may  not 
reveal,  a  century  of  exaltation.  He  ended,  as  he 
thought,  rather  lamely;  but  his  father  expressed 
no  dissatisfaction.  On  the  contrary,  he  nodded 
his  head  several  times;  but  whether  it  was  in 
approbation  of  his  son,  of  Alloway,  or  of  his  own 
perspicacity,  Ritt  could  not  determine. 

"Summing  up,  we  have  this,"  said  J.  E.,  after 
a  moment's  thought,  "the  girl  prefers  to  remain 

215 


COBWEB 

a  mystery,  save  in  that  she  herself  is  the  answer 
to  her  riddle.  We  know  that  she  is  very  much 
alone,  consequently  we  can  understand  her  desire 
to  marry  you  alone.  As  soon  as  the  deed  is  done 
you  are  to  bring  her  to  my  office,  where  I  shall 
wait  for  you  with  more  genuine  old-fashioned 
curiosity  than  trepidation.  You  see,  she  has  won 
me  that  far  already." 

"It  is  splendid  of  you,"  said  his  son,  im- 
pulsively. 

"Splendid  of  her,  you  mean,"  corrected  J.  E. 
"I  am  to  ask  no  questions;  I  accept  that.  And 
we  are  to  dine  here  to-morrow  night,  with 
Angela  as  the  sole  guest;  I  accept  that,  too,  and 
welcome  it.  I  anticipate  having  more  fun  with 
Angela's  face  than  I  had  with  my  first  kite,  and 
more  kinds  of  entertainment  with  your  lovely 
unknown  than  I  thought  were  left  in  a  stale 
world.  Why,  boy,  any  girl  that  could  say  so 
many  mind-pricking  things  in  twenty-four  hours, 
any  girl  that  could  lead  to  such  an  astound- 
ing program  by  whatever  path,  say — "  He 
heaved  his  great  bulk  from  his  chair  with  aston- 
ishing alacrity  and  struck  his  son's  shoulder  a 
blow  which  all  but  dislocated  it.  "Stand  up, 
sir,"  he  thundered,  "and  let  me  congratulate 
you!  You  have  found  the  lost  land  of  Ophir." 

They  shook  hands  until  Ritt  groaned  and 
216 


COBWEB 

pleaded  for  mercy.  With  his  arm  thrown  across 
his  son's  shoulder,  J.  E.  led  him  toward  the  door. 
"You  must  go  to  bed  now,"  he  said,  "though 
you  may  think  you  won't  sleep  a  wink.  To- 
morrow, after  the  visit  to  the  office,  you  shall 
bring  her  here  to  your  mother's  rooms.  They 
are  just  as  she  left  them,  except  that  last  spring 
I  had  fresh  chintzes  put  in  her  sitting  room — the 
dearest,  brightest  room  in  the  house." 

"Father!"  said  Ritt,  and  stopped,  choked  by 
a  sudden  thickness  in  his  throat.  His  eyes, 
meeting  J.  E.'s  unwavering  gaze,  spoke  elo- 
quently his  full  thought. 

"Not  a  word  of  that,"  said  John  Bourne, 
quickly.  "I  hate  half  givers.  Either  your  girl 
is  everything  that  you  say  or  we  all  go  down  in  a 
single  great  wreck.  I  believe  in  her  with  my 
head  as  you  believe  in  her  with  your  heart. 
To-morrow  she  becomes  the  mistress  of  this 
house,  of  all  its  traditions  and  memories.  She 
can  make  of  it  a  plaything  or  a  shrine;  but  you 
and  I,  we  have  cast  our  die.  It's  a  great  thing, 
Ritt,  it  always  has  been  a  great  thing,  to  gamble 
your  whole  world  on  the  turn  of  a  woman." 

Sharply  at  nine  o'clock  of  the  next  morning 
Ritt  Bourne,  suffering  with  such  an  attack  of 
palpitation  of  the  heart  as  attends  only  youth 
very  much  in  love,  presented  himself  in  the  lobby 

217 


COBWEB 

of  the  hotel  and  asked  that  his  name  be  sent  to 
"Miss  Alloway."  The  clerk  complied  with  the 
request,  but  presently  difficulties  began  to  de- 
velop. There  was  argument  over  the  telephone, 
and  finally,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  which 
said  plainly  to  any  observer  that  he  would  do  it 
and  damn  the  consequences,  the  clerk  came  out 
to  Bourne  from  behind  his  barrier  and  said  hi  a 
low  tone,  "Miss  Alloway  Schuyler  wishes  you  to 
come  to  her  room." 

"Miss — "  began  Bourne  and  then  caught  his 
tongue  between  his  teeth.  "What  number?" 
he  asked,  and  a  moment  later,  assailed  by  a  host 
of  fears,  he  knocked  at  Allo way's  door.  It 
opened  immediately,  and  he  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  a  woman  in  the  traditional  fighting 
posture  of  her  sex,  arms  akimbo,  head  up,  and 
feet  slightly  straddled.  Beyond  her  he  could  see 
Alloway,  fully  dressed,  seated  in  a  chair  by  the 
window,  her  gloved  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 

"Who  is  this,  Alloway?"  he  asked  while  he 
still  stood  in  the  open  doorway. 

"It's  Janet,"  said  Alloway.  "She  locked  the 
door  and  said  I  couldn't  go." 

"Who  is  Janet?"  asked  Bourne. 

"You  may  well  ask,"  said  Janet,  between  her 
teeth.  "I'll  tell  you  who  she  is;  she's  nothing 
but  the  floor  lady's  maid,  that's  all  she  is." 

218 


COBWEB 

"Oh  no,  Ritt!"  cried  Alloway,  rising.  "Don't 
believe  that.  She  is  my  friend;  she  has  cared 
for  me  as  though  I  were  her  own  baby.  Don't 
you  dare  be  rough  with  her.  She's — she's  just 
come  back  from  nursing  all  her  relatives  through 
the  flu." 

"I  begin  to  understand,"  said  Bourne,  his  face 
breaking  into  a  winning  smile.  "Good  for  you, 
Janet.  You'll  never  regret  it,  never." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen,"  said  Janet,  stick- 
ing to  her  guns.  "Miss  Alloway  is  nothing  but 
a  lamb,  and  no — " 

She  broke  off  with  a  meaning  toss  of  her 
head. 

"No  wolf  is  going  to  wolf  her  while  you're 
around,"  finished  Bourne. 

"You  yourself  said  it,"  agreed  Janet. 

"Alloway,"  said  Bourne,  "go  out  in  the  hall 
and  cheek  the  house  detective  when  he  comes;  I 
want  a  word  with  Janet." 

Alloway  obeyed  so  quickly  that  Janet  had  no 
chance  to  clutch  her  skirt,  still  to  hold  her  a 
prisoner.  Bourne  closed  the  door  and  turned  to 
face  the  maid.  "Would  you  like  to  stay  with 
Miss  Alloway  for  the  next  forty  years  of  your 
life?"  he  asked,  pleasantly. 

"That  depends,"  replied  Janet. 

"If  you  mean  it  depends  on  money,  you  may 
15  219 


COBWEB 

have  as  much  and  no  more  than  the  best  lady's 
maid  you  know." 

"You  know  I  didn't  mean  money,"  said  Janet, 
coloring. 

"Of  course  I  knew  it,  Janet,"  said  Bourne, 
taking  her  by  the  hand  and  leading  her  over  to 
the  window.  "You  can't  quite,  but  you  can 
almost  see  it." 

"See  what?"  asked  Janet. 

"My  father's  house,"  said  Bourne.  "J.  E. 
Bourne's  house,  where  you  and  I  and  Alloway  will 
be  living — from  to-night  on." 

"Your  father's  house,  did  you  say?"  asked 
Janet,  and  from  that  point  Bourne  took  up  the 
time,  until  Alloway  knocked  impatiently  on  the 
door,  in  giving  minute  directions  as  to  the 
myriad  things  Janet  was  to  do  in  the  way  of 
packing,  moving,  unpacking,  and  settling  down, 
all  in  the  course  of  two  short  hours. 

"I'll  fix  it  with  the  hotel,"  he  said,  hurriedly, 
as  he  made  for  the  door.  He  dropped  a  bank- 
note on  the  bed.  "Take  ten  taxis  if  you  need 
them.  I  trust  you." 

"He  trusts  me!"  exclaimed  Janet,  with  irony, 
a  moment  later  to  empty  space,  and  then,  with 
a  smile  that  was  a  mixture  of  cynicism  and  indul- 
gence to  the  eternally  egoistic  male,  she  turned 
and  went  furiously  to  work. 

220 


Chapter  Twelve 

J.  E.  BOURNE'S  offices  occupied  the  entire 
twenty-first  floor  of  a  very  high  building.  His 
own  room  was  a  corner  one,  large,  spacious,  and 
well  lighted  by  four  wide,  low-silled  windows,  so 
that,  sitting  or  standing,  one  gained  a  sensation 
akin  to  that  of  being  perched  in  an  eagle's  eerie 
on  an  open  mountain-side.  The  principal  out- 
look, across  a  jumble  of  sharply  differentiated 
roofs,  presented  a  superb  bird's  eye  view  of  the 
Lower  Bay  with  islands  and  water  laid  almost 
equally  flat,  clearly  cut  as  the  lines  of  a  profile. 

J.  E.  had  a  theory  of  rooms  in  conjunction  with 
work.  He  believed  that  a  young  man  should 
labor  between  four  blank  walls,  well  ventilated 
at  the  level  of  the  ceiling,  but  that,  once  past  the 
bump  of  success  and  his  fortieth  year,  he  should 
have  transcended  the  maze  of  detail  and  come 
out  upon  the  plane  of  generalship  and  policies, 
graduated  into  the  class  of  masters  who  paint 
with  a  broad,  sure  stroke,  and  that,  having  es- 
tablished his  right  to  a  place  high  upon  the  pyra- 
mid of  the  industrial  hierarchy,  he  had  an  equal 
claim  to  open  windows  and  a  sweeping  view. 

"A  man  may  measure  his  greatness  any  day," 
he  had  once  said  to  his  son,  "  by  his  capacity  for 

221 


COBWEB 

hobnobbing  with  the  clouds  without  losing  the 
grip  of  his  feet  on  solid  earth.  Show  me  an  old 
hand  who  can't  work  unless  he's  shut  up  in  a 
silent  tomb  and  you  show  me  the  eternal  clerk. 
There  are  days  when  I'm  mean  and  small,  when 
I  know  I'm  a  draftsman  again  at  fifty  dollars 
a  week.  But  there  are  weeks  and  sometimes 
months  when  I  belong  up  here,  when  clouds  are 
my  natural  pals  by  the  right  of  the  mountain 
climber.  It  is  then  I  feel  in  my  bones  that  I  can 
see  with  the  penetrating  eye  of  God  tuned  down 
to  human  dimensions,  but  still  high  powered 
enough  to  take  in  an  industrial  plant,  rip  off  its 
roofs,  disclose  it  floor  by  floor,  and  map  out  the 
twists  and  turns  in  the  minds  of  every  man  and 
woman  in  the  hive.  Without  such  flairs  of 
generalship  I  couldn't  be  happy.  Without  my 
belief  in  a  group  of  men  who  have  attained  to 
what  you  might  call  an  earned  elation  I  would 
lose  faith  in  the  ultimate  welfare  of  industrial 
man." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Ritt 
Bourne  had  asked.  "You  have  gone  over  me." 

"I  mean,"  said  his  father,  "that  there  is  a 
leadership  which  grows  only  out  of  turmoil.  To 
give  you  an  instance,  the  stereotyped  attitude 
toward  a  strike  for  generations  was  suppression, 
pure  and  simple.  The  old  mind  looked  at  a 

222 


COBWEB 

strike  as  an  obstacle;  the  new  mind  considers 
it  as  a  factor.  Listen.  Ten  years  ago  I  heard 
Jim  Wallers  say  of  Charlie  Truebell  that  he  was 
a  damned  fool,  that  in  a  tour  of  seventeen  plants 
he  hadn't  visited  a  single  mill,  but  had  spent. all 
his  time  in  cafeterias,  operatives'  clubs,  residential 
side  streets,  alleys,  and  back-lot  playgrounds, 
and  then  had  spoiled  a  good  time  in  the  special 
by  sitting  off  in  a  corner  to  write  his  report  on  the 
biggest  reconstruction  scheme  ever  launched  by 
the  Boston  group.  The  next  day  I  secured 
Truebell  as  a  partner  at  a  guaranteed  retainer 
of  over  a  hundred  thousand.  I  didn't  take  him 
on  as  a  philanthropist,  but  because  he  had  the 
new  mind,  the  factor  mind  that  doesn't  rush  at 
an  obstacle,  but  rises  to  it.  You  know  what 
Truebell  is  to-day,  but  you  don't  remember 
Jim  Wallers — he's  been  down  and  out  for  half 
a  dozen  years.  Now  do  you  see?  " 

"I've  got  it  now,"  young  Bourne  had  said, 
with  a  thoughtful  smile,  "and  I'll  never  forget 
it." 

That  conversation  had  taken  place  in  J.  E.'s 
high  eerie  and  it  was  to  this  room  with  its  clean, 
broad  outlook  that  Ritt  Bourne  brought  his 
bride  at  half  past  eleven  in  the  morning  of  a 
glorious  late-autumn  day.  He  opened  the  door 
and  thrust  her  before  him;  she  took  three  steps 

223 


COBWEB 

into  the  full  light  of  the  wide  windows  and  then 
stopped.  Her  gaze,  excluding  all  surroundings, 
focused  solely  on  J.  E.'s  bulky  figure.  For  an 
instant  his  gimlet  eyes  struck  straight  at  her 
face  with  a  penetration  which  was  hard  and 
intense,  then  slowly  they  softened  and  gradually 
filled  to  the  brilliance  which  made  one  forget 
then*  smallness.  Without  apparent  effort  he  rose 
from  his  chair  to  his  full  height,  passed  around 
his  desk,  and  paused.  He  looked  at  Alloway 
again,  not  as  one  examines  a  picture  offered  for 
purchase,  but  with  the  caught  breath  of  him 
who  throws  open  a  casement  on  green  hill  and 
vale  at  break  of  day. 

Alloway  stood  very  still,  as  though  by  long 
usage  she  were  conscious  of  the  power  which  her 
bewildering  freshness  exhaled.  She  was  like  a 
pale  rose  secured  in  its  own  loveliness  and 
fragrance.  She  was  the  living,  breathing  denial 
of  all  arts,  the  embodiment  of  aspiration,  a 
dream  made  carnal;  but  above  all  she  was 
youth,  tremulously  alive,  pouring  the  single 
strength  of  its  great  desire  into  the  one  present 
question  of  the  soul. 

J.  E.  felt  her  wide  brown  eyes  plunge  into  his 
breast  as  though,  if  need  be,  they  would  tear 
their  way  to  his  heart.  Suddenly  he  realized 
that  this  girl,  outwardly  so  still  and  calm,  stood, 

224 


COBWEB 

in  terror  not  of  him,  but  of  the  shadow  of  the 
failure  of  her  own  appeal.  He  moved  swiftly 
to  her,  took  up  her  hands  that  had  been  hanging 
at  her  sides,  and  forced  her  to  look  at  him. 

"You  are  Alloway,"  he  said,  his  eyes  twinkling 
into  hers,  "my  son's  wife;  as  lovely  a  bride  as 
ever  man  brought  home  straight  to  his  father's 
heart." 

The  girl  could  not  speak,  but  she  nodded  her 
head  violently,  freed  her  hands,  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  drew  herself  up  to  the  very  tips 
of  her  toes,  pressed  her  smooth  cheek  hard 
against  his  rough  one,  and  hugged  him  tighter 
and  tighter,  clinging  to  him  as  to  a  strong  and 
sure  refuge.  He  felt  the  desperate,  fluttering 
beat  of  her  heart  growing  swiftly  calmer,  and 
presently  he  heard  her  murmur,  "I  was  fright- 
ened; I  was  terribly  afraid." 

He  wrapped  his  arms  tenderly  around  her, 
blinked  furiously  to  clear  the  moisture  from  his 
eyes,  glared  at  his  son,  and  cried:  "Get  out  of 
here,  young  man.  Stay  away  for  half  an  hour." 
Then  holding  Alloway's  slim  figure  in  the  crook 
of  his  arm,  he  led  her  to  his  favorite  window  and 
said,  "Look,  my  dear." 

She  threw  up  her  head.  "How  lovely!  How 
far  one  can  see!" 

"That's  it,"  said  J.  E.,  with  quick  approval, 
225 


COBWEB 

"how  far  you  can  see  if  you  only  get  high  enough. 
It's  going  to  be  like  that  with  you  and  me.  No 
ugliness,  no  details.  We  will  meet  each  other 
only  high  up  where  I  know  in  my  heart  you 
have  lived  all  your  young  days  and  where  I  shall 
climb  again  if  you'll  only  give  me  a  hand." 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  his  as  though  in 
immediate  acquiescence,  pressed  closer  to  his 
shoulder,  and  it  was  thus  that  Bourne  the  younger 
found  them  standing  in  silence  when  he  broke 
in  at  the  end  of  an  impatient  quarter  of  an  hour 
and  embraced  them  both  in  a  great  bear  hug. 

"Alloway,"  he  whispered,  loudly,  "it  strikes 
me  that  this  job  is  pretty  well  done  for.  I  told 
you  there  was  nothing  to  it." 

J.  E.  disengaged  himself  with  a  sigh  and  re- 
turned to  the  seat  behind  his  desk.  "You  may 
say  there  was  nothing  to  it,"  he  said,  as  lugubri- 
ously as  a  boy,  "but  I  wish  it  were  all  to  do 
over  again.  I  would  put  up  more  of  a  fight." 

"Don't  say  that,  please,"  cried  Alloway, 
running  to  perch  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 
Leaning  toward  him,  she  whispered,  "You 
haven't  kissed  the  bride." 

"Alloway,  please  come,"  cried  Ritt  from  the 
door. 

"Where  do  we  go  now,  Ritt?"  she  asked,  a 
moment  later,  as  they  descended  in  the  elevator. 

226 


COBWEB 

"Home,"  he  whispered,  so  loudly  that  the 
other  occupants  glanced  at  them  and  smiled. 

When  they  had  entered  his  father's  best  town 
car  he  cried,  "Home,"  again  to  the  driver,  but 
as  they  threaded  their  way  through  the  traffic 
Alloway  slipped  her  hand  inside  his  arm  and 
said,  almost  sadly:  "No,  dear,  we'll  have  to  go 
to  the  hotel  first,  and  I  must  finish  packing. 
Perhaps  it  may  take  me  an  hour." 

Bourne  leaned  over  and  whispered  once  more, 
this  time  in  her  ear,  "Home!" 

They  arrived  at  the  house  in  Murray  Hill, 
and  Bourne  dismissed  the  car;  then  he  took 
Allo way's  hand  and  led  her  formally  up  the  steps; 
but  before  he  could  ring,  the  door  flew  open  and 
Simon  bowed  low  to  his  new  mistress. 

"Stand  up,  Simon,  and  look  at  her,"  said  Ritt, 
proudly — "Mrs.  Rittenhouse  Bourne." 

Simon  drew  straight  as  a  ramrod.  Alloway 
turned  her  head  and  smiled  over  her  shoulder 
directly  into  the  old  man's  face.  His  pale-blue 
eyes  filled  as  though  she  had  touched  some  secret 
spring,  and  tears  trickled  slowly,  almost  sedately, 
one  after  the  other  down  his  pink  cheeks. 

"He's  caught  it,"  said  Bourne,  with  a  laugh. 
"He's  weeping  like  the  rest  of  us,  for  joy.  Now 
watch  and  see  if  somebody  else  doesn't  do  the 
selfsame  thing." 

227 


COBWEB 

"Not  me,"  said  Alloway,  firmly.  "I'm  not 
going  to  cry  any  more  to-day." 

"Any  more?"  asked  Ritt.  "I  haven't  seen 
you  cry  to-day;  not  really  cry." 

"Oh,  but  I  did,"  said  Alloway,  "inside!" 

She  stopped  and  looked  around  her.  They 
were  in  the  wide  entrance  hall.  On  one  side  a 
square  arch  opened  on  the  spacious  vista  of 
drawing  and  dining  rooms,  on  the  other  a  small 
door  led  the  eye  to  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
library.  A  stairway  paneled  in  oak  rose  with 
three  right-angled  turns  in  easy  sweeps  to  the 
floor  above. 

Allo way's  brows  puckered.  "Why  is  the 
stairway  paneled?"  she  asked.  "It  must  have 
had  pilasters." 

Bourne  stopped  and  stared  at  her.  "Will  you 
never  get  through  being  a  wonder?"  he  asked. 
"The  stairway  was  paneled  fully  twenty  years 
ago,  on  the  occasion  of  your  husband's  discovery 
that  he  could  shove  his  head  between  the  widely 
spaced  palings,  but  couldn't  pull  it  back  again." 

"Oh,"  said  Alloway,  patting  the  smooth  oak, 
her  brow  still  furrowed  to  some  unanswered 
puzzle.  But  presently  it  cleared.  "Did  you  do 
that  too,  Ritt?"  she  asked.  "I  wish  we  could 
have  been  babies  together." 

"I  do,  too,  dear,"  said  Bourne,  and,  with  his 
228 


COBWEB 

arm  around  her,  led  her  up  the  stairs  and  down 
a  long  hall  which  ended  in  a  door  that  seemed  to 
open  on  a  garden  of  light.  They  passed  into 
what  had  been  his  mother's  own  sitting  room, 
freshly  done  over  in  chintz  so  that  it  carried 
him  back  completely  to  what  otherwise  would 
have  been  a  faded  memory. 

"What  a  perfect,  room!"  breathed  Alloway. 
"It  is  like  all  the  sweet  women  I  would  like  to 
know." 

"It  is  your  own  room,"  said  Bourne,  simply, 
"the  room  where  I  shall  always  knock  before  I 
enter.  The  door  yonder  leads  to  your  bath 
and  the  one  beyond  to  our  bedroom.  Would 
you  like  to  see  it — the  bedroom?  " 

She  nodded,  and  he  led  the  way  to  throw  the 
door  open  for  her.  She  approached  cautiously, 
peeped  around  the  post,  saw  with  amazement  a 
familiar  garment,  threw  an  inquiring  glance  at 
Bourne  with  a  birdlike  movement  of  her  head, 
ran  into  the  room,  and  threw  out  her  hands. 

"My  things!"  she  cried.  "All  my  things  are 
here!  Oh,  Ritt  dear,  how  sweet  you  are  to  me! 
how  thoughtful!  I  love  your  great  big  house. 
It  is  big  enough  to  dream  in.  If  one  were  only 
light  enough  upon  one's  feet  and  heart  one  could 
be  a  fairy,  it  is  so  very  big  and  kind." 

She  nestled  in  his  arms. 
229 


COBWEB 

"No  new  furniture,"  he  murmured. 

"No  new  furniture,"  she  echoed. 

"No  going  back  to  the  old  hotel." 

"No  going  back  to  the  old  hotel." 

"Not  for  a  minute." 

"Not  for  a  minute." 

"No  packing." 

"No  packing." 

"No  unpacking." 

"No  unpacking." 

"No  loneliness  ever  any  more." 

"Oh,  I  hope  no  loneliness  ever  more." 

"Now  that's  settled,"  said  Bourne,  in  a  firm 
voice,  "I'm  going  to  turn  you  over  to  Janet." 

"To  Janet!"  cried  Alloway.  "Oh,  Janet! 
Janet!" 

Janet  came  into  the  room  with  a  great  flurry 
of  skirts  and  starched  apron.  "Yes,  Miss 
Alloway." 

Alloway  rushed  into  her  arms  and  tumbled 
her  head  on  her  bosom.  "Oh,"  she  gasped,  "I'm 
so  glad  you're  here!  I've  been  wanting  some- 
thing really  soft — " 

Bourne  hurried  away,  wandered  rather  aim- 
lessly through  the  house,  finally  entered  the 
library,  and  stopped  suddenly  with  upthrown 
head  and  a  look  of  astonishment  at  finding  his 
father  there  before  him,  pacing  up  and  down 

230 


COBWEB 

with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back  and  his 
head  sunk  on  his  chest. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  asked  Ritt. 
"How  did  you  get  here?" 

J.  E.  looked  up;  a  fine  smile  lit  his  heavy 
features  and  vivified  his  eyes.  "Ritt,  my 
boy,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  when  I've  been 
so  excited.  I  came  up  on  the  Subway.  I 
couldn't  stay  in  the  office.  It  wasn't  that  I 
couldn't  wait  to  tell  you  that  I'm  absurdly  proud 
of  you  and  of  her;  it  was  more  than  that.  I 
remember  once  before  making  a  fool  of  myself 
like  this.  I  was  fishing  in  Scotland  and  just  cross- 
ing a  bridge  when  I  saw  a  girl  standing  in  water  up 
to  her  waist  on  the  very  verge  of  such  a  jumble  of 
broken  rocks  as  only  a  Scotch  river  can  boast. 

"A  great  brawny  gillie  was  holding  her  up  for 
dear  life  with  both  arms  and  she  playing  a 
mighty  salmon  with  all  the  strength  of  her  solid 
mind  and  lissome  body.  Five  times  she  brought 
the  fish  up  for  the  gaff  and  five  times  the  gillie 
didn't  dare  let  go  of  her.  And  her  face  never 
changed,  boy;  she  never  said  a  single  damn. 
Just  fought  and  lost  and  fought  again.  That's 
when  I  turned  fool.  I  dropped  my  tackle, 
jumped  up  and  down,  and  started  yelling  at  her. 
I  wanted  the  gillie  to  drag  her  backward  to  the 
bank. 

231 


COBWEB 

"  While  I  was  yelling,  what  I  was  afraid  of 
happened.  The  salmon  took  the  bit  in  his 
mouth  for  a  last  rush  and  shot  downstream  and 
under  the  bridge  like  a  bullet  out  of  a  gun,  with 
the  high  song  of  the  reel  for  the  screech.  We 
thought  it  was  all  over,  but  as  the  line  ran  out 
the  gillie  picked  up  the  girl  like  a  sack  of  potatoes 
and  made  for  the  shore.  All  the  way  in,  leaning 
at  right  angles  from  his  shoulder,  she  continued 
to  attend  strictly  to  business,  and  when  she  got 
her  feet  on  solid  earth  again  she  taught  the 
crowd  that  had  gathered  on  the  bridge,  including 
your  dad,  more  about  fishing  than  was  ever 
put  down  in  books,  and  when  it  was  all  over  and 
thirty  pounds  of  gasping  salmon  lay  gleaming 
on  the  bank,  all  she  said  was,  'Stand  me  on  my 
head,  Mackintosh;  my  waders  are  chock  with 
the  water/ 

"It  was  a  great  and  wonderful  sight,  a  battle 
that  ought  to  go  down  in  song  and  story,  for 
she  wasn't  a  husky  wench.  She  was  gentle  and 
bore  a  great  name.  Well,  I  may  be  just  the 
same  old  fool  to-day,  but  I  can't  help  it;  I've 
got  to  tell  you  that  you  have  still  to  play  fine 
and  easy  before  Alloway  is  safe  home  in  the 
landing  net.  God  give  you  a  steady  and  a 
light  hand,  boy.  Don't  press.  Take  your  time. 
Ride  yourself  on  the  curb.  Your  heart's  in  it; 

232 


COBWEB 

give  your  head  a  chance.  If  you  lose  her  I'll 
never  forgive  you." 

"But  I  can  forgive  you  anything,"  said  Ritt, 
warmly,  "for  saying  just  that.  Father,  it's 
great  to  have  you  with  me;  it's  the  greatest  thing, 
next  to  Alloway  herself,  that  has  ever  happened. 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I'm  frightened  to 
death  and  not  too  proud  to  take  help." 

"Well,"  said  J.  E.,  "you  remember  I  told  you 
I  knew  why  she  went  to  that  ball?  I  said  you'd 
have  to  find  out  for  yourself,  but  I'll  play 
traitor  to  her  just  this  once.  She  dreamed  her 
way  to  that  ball.  Her  mind  is  the  perfection 
of  the  imaginative  type.  Look  out  for  it. 
Now  I've  done  it;  now  I've  told  you.  Think 
it  out." 

"I  believe  you're  right,"  said  Bourne,  thought- 
fully. "She  knows  everything  in  the  world 
about  dreams;  shejias  all  the  wisdom  there  is  in 
wind,  water,  or  a  spray  of  apple  blossoms,  but 
fire  hasn't  scorched  her  anywhere." 

"She  has  all  that,"  said  J.  E.,  picking  up  his 
hat,  "but  if  at  any  time  you  begin  to  lose  hope, 
remember  the  even  balance  of  the  mind  some 
seer  gave  her  for  a  seventh  birthday  present. 
Now  I'm  off  again." 

Ritt  followed  his  father  to  the  front  door, 
and  then  wrandered  away  through  the  familiar 

233 


COBWEB 

rooms  of  the  old  house,  loitering  in  each  to 
picture  Alloway  in  one  and  another  homely 
setting.  In  these  subdued  and  sober  haunts 
of  crowding  memories  she  would  appear  as  a 
nebulous  light,  shedding  the  intangible  radiance 
of  a  comet's  plume.  He  could  see  her  thus;  but 
when  he  tried  to  seize  that  fanciful  vision  and 
mold  it  into  flesh  and  bone,  subject  to  the  harder 
usages  of  life  and  to  those  leveling  laws  of  nature 
which  are  no  respecters  of  persons,  his  effort 
seemed  to  him  to  fall  short  of  realization  and  he 
was  afraid. 

At  one  o'clock  he  sent  to  ask  if  he  might  lunch 
with  her  in  her  sitting  room.  He  found  her  in  a 
negligee  of  such  ravishing  yet  delicate  reveal- 
ment  that  he  turned  his  eyes  away,  abashed. 
She  was  standing,  waiting  for  him,  one  hand 
resting  lightly  on  the  back  of  a  chair.  She 
studied  him  with  a  whimsical  smile  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  asked,  "Why  did  you  send  to 
know  if  you  might  come  to  me?" 

"Because  in  these  rooms  you  are  yourself," 
he  said,  meeting  her  eyes  squarely. 

"I  understand  you,"  she  said,  after  a  thought- 
ful pause.  Her  brows  drew  together  in  an  effort 
for  expression.  "You  mean,"  she  continued, 
"that  there  is  a  personal  domain,  an  individual 
castle  of  the  soul,  and  it  must  have  an  inanimate 

234 


COBWEB 

symbol  like  this  room,  a  tangible  refuge.  Ritt, 
I  don't  need  it  to-day." 

The  age  of  all  womanhood  shone  in  her  words 
and  in  her  eyes.  He  felt  a  hot  rush  of  blood  to 
his  temples.  "What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"I  mean,"  said  Alloway,  steadily,  "that  I 
cannot  bear  to  have  you  afraid  of  me  or  to  think 
of  me  as  something  cold  or  fragile  or  just  a  little 
inhuman.  Come  here.  Lay  your  hand  on  my 
neck.  See  how  warm  I  am." 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  raised  them  and 
crushed  her  fingers  to  his  lips.  "Your  eyes  see 
into  my  heart,"  he  whispered. 

"Your  hands  are  strong,"  she  said,  "but  they 
are  gentle.  Why  should  I  be  frightened?  I  am 
not  afraid  to  be  near  you."  She  looked  up  at  the 
forward  thrust  of  his  head  and  at  the  firm  set  of 
his  jaw.  "You  are  the  lover  I  have  known  for 
years;  the  handsomest  man,  the  dearest  boy 
in  the  whole  wide  world!" 

He  loved  the  smooth  turning  of  her  head  at 
the  maid's  knock  on  the  door  and  the  calm  and 
gentle  manner  of  the  freeing  of  her  hands.  She 
moved  easily,  taking  possession  of  herself  and  of 
all  her  surroundings,  and  when,  a  few  hours  later, 
she  swept  in  grande  tenue  into  the  drawing-room 
where  he  and  his  father  and  Miss  Livingstone 

16  235 


COBWEB 

were  already  waiting,  he  could  have  kissed  her 
feet  for  the  unconscious  charm  of  her  apology 
for  being  late.  "It's  because  I  was  married 
to-day,"  she  said  from  her  innate  truthfulness  and 
with  a  breath-taking  simplicity.  "  There  were 
moments  when  I  didn't  think  how  time  was 
passing." 

J.  E.  took  her  hand,  drew  it  through  his  arm, 
and  patted  it  as  he  led  the  way  with  her  into  the 
dining  room,  but  as  they  crossed  the  threshold 
she  snatched  it  away  to  clap  in  girlish  glee  at 
sight  of  the  large,  snow-white  wedding  cake 
which  shone  in  strict  accordance  with  all  the  rules 
of  marriage  lore,  amid  the  four  high  table  candles. 
It  was  a  gay  dinner,  a  human  dinner,  a  dinner 
such  as  young  men  would  gladly  build  for  with 
bricks  of  blood  and  bone,  and  old  men  count 
themselves  happy  in  single  recollection. 

It  might  have  been  expected  that  three  in  that 
company  should  have  opened  a  closed  ring  and 
with  the  best  of  intentions  made  a  suitable  niche 
for  the  newcomer,  the  stranger,  in  their  midst; 
but  the  will  to  put  Alloway  at  her  ease,  if  it  ever 
existed,  had  evaporated  at  the  moment  of  her 
first  appearance.  It  was  she  who,  in  the  single- 
ness of  her  heart,  revivified  the  flame  upon  the 
ancient  altar  of  old-fashioned  friendship.  Those 
things  which  were  elemental  in  the  girl,  her 

236 


COBWEB 

youth,  her  abiding  freshness,  her  unclouded  pur- 
poses and  untarnished  vision,  like  the  soft  glow 
of  the  high  candles,  established  a  radiation  which 
lit  up  the  faces  and  the  inner  fires  of  all  those  who 
came  within  the  circle  of  her  wizardry. 


Chapter  Thirteen 

SO  informal  a  gathering  of  friends  could  scarcely 
retire  to  the  stately  drawing-room;  as  though 
by  one  accord,  it  passed  on  to  the  wide  hall, 
hesitated,  and  then,  led  by  J.  E.  himself,  entered 
the  hallowed  precincts  of  the  library.  Upon 
crossing  the  narrow  portal  which  gave  upon  the 
broad  world  of  books,  Alloway  stopped  in  her 
tracks  and  threw  up  her  head  to  a  familiar  odor. 
It  was  the  gesture  of  one  whose  childhood  has 
been  blessed  with  a  fragrant  hedge,  and  who 
ever  after,  in  youth,  maturity,  and  tottering  age, 
will  stop  stockstill  with  dilated  nostrils  at  the 
pungent  smell  of  clipped  box. 

She  was  wearing  a  tulle  dress  that  was  like  a 
cloud  of  deep-brown  smoke;  she  raised  her  pale 
hands  and  gleaming  arms  and  pressed  them  into 
its  softness  at  her  breast,  her  head  turning  very 
slowly,  her  eyes  oblivious  of  all  but  the  serrated 
rows  of  volumes  imposing  their  presence  above 
the  quiet,  odorous  atmosphere  of  worn  leather. 
She  made  an  appealing  movement  toward 
Bourne,  her  lover,  drew  him  to  her,  and,  with 
her  hand  placed  lightly  on  his  arm,  passed  slowly 
along  the  laden  shelves.  Here  and  there  she 

238 


COBWEB 

paused  to  greet  a  book  with  a  caressing  touch 
as  one  who  meets  an  old  and  dear  friend. 

J.  E.'s  blood  pounded  in  his  veins;  he  felt  an 
access  of  jubilation  which  lit  up  his  heavy  face 
with  a  boyish  exuberance.  He  was  standing 
beside  Angela  just  within  the  door,  and  they 
were  both  watching  Alloway  with  the  intensity 
with  which  one  might  spy  upon  a  sprite  serene 
and  unconscious  in  its  native  forest.  He  leaned 
over  and  whispered,  happily,  "The  girl  is 
library  bred,  Angela;  she's  library  bred." 

Miss  Livingstone  nodded,  but  did  not  take  her 
eyes  off  Alloway's  figure  moving  within  its  cloud 
of  tulle  amid  the  harmonious  browns  of  oak  and 
leathern  chairs  and  calf-bound  tomes.  Every- 
thing in  the  room  seemed  to  lean  toward  her,  to 
absorb  her  into  an  intimate  fellowship,  a  jovial 
yet  dignified  companionship  such  as  undying  age 
might  share  with  the  spirit  of  eternal  youth. 

Suddenly  she  paused,  drew  quite  erect,  clasped 
her  hands  before  her,  and  cast  a  pleased,  radiant 
glance  over  her  shoulder  at  her  companions  in  the 
room.  She  had  come  upon  a  piece  of  Chinese 
porcelain  standing  in  isolated  grandeur  upon  a 
pedestal  of  ebony  in  the  angle  of  two  walls. 
She  moved  swiftly  toward  it,  knelt  on  the  low 
arm  of  a  great  chair,  and  leaned  forward,  her 
head  thrown  back,  her  eyes  slanted  down  as 

239 


COBWEB 

though  to  caress  the  painted  scene  imprisoned 
forever  in  the  glaze  with  the  flooding  worship  of 
her  understanding  gaze.  The  others  drew  near 
to  her  and  stood  divided  between  admiration  for 
her  pose  and  for  the  beauty  of  the  object  of  her 
adoration. 

She  touched  the  scene  depicted  on  the  beaker 
with  the  tip  of  her  pink  finger  nail.  "This  is  an 
old  story,"  she  said  in  a  bell-like  tone,  "a  very 
old  legend.  Shall  I  read  it  to  you?"  she  asked, 
not  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  picture  in  the  main 
reserve  of  the  porcelain  piece. 

"Please  do,"  said  Angela,  quickly. 

"Yes,  Alloway,"  said  Ritt  Bourne,  excited 
with  the  thought  that  his  father  was  so  soon  to 
follow  one  of  the  flights  of  the  girl's  fancy  which 
had  so  entranced  himself,  "tell  us  the  story." 

"The  picture,"  began  Alloway,  "tells  of  one, 
Wang  Chih,  of  whom  it  is  recorded  in  the  seven 
books  of  wisdom  that  he  lived  long,  long  ago  in 
the  days  of  the  Tsin  kings.  He  was  a  humble 
woodcutter,  and  one  day,  having  wandered  into 
the  mountains  of  K'u  Chow  to  gather  fagots,  he 
spied  a  grotto,  entered  it,  and  found  some  aged 
men  seated  there  intent  upon  a  game  of  chess. 
He  put  aside  his  ax  to  watch  the  game,  and 
presently  one  of  the  old  men  handed  him  a  thing 
somewhat  like  a  date  stone  in  shape  and  told  him 

240 


COBWEB 

to  put  it  in  his  mouth.  No  sooner  had  he  tasted 
it  than  he  became  oblivious  of  hunger  and  thirst. 
After  a  space  of  time  one  of  the  players  looked 
up  and  said:  'It  is  long  since  you  came  here. 
You  had  best  go  home  now.'  Whereupon  Wang 
Chih,  stooping  to  pick  up  his  ax,  found  its  handle 
moldered  into  dust  and  himself  wearing  a  long 
white  beard,  so  long  that  it  trailed  upon  the 
ground.  He  went  hastily  to  his  home  and  found 
that  centuries  had  passed  since  the  day  when  he 
had  left  it  for  the  mountains  of  K'u  Chow  and 
that  no  trace  of  his  kinsfolk  remained.  It  is  a 
very  old  story,"  she  concluded. 

"Old!"  exclaimed  J.  E.  "Why,  it's  so  old 
that  its  shadow  crept  to  the  Catskills  a  hundred 
years  ago." 

"My  dear,"  cried  Angela,  "where  have  you 
learned  these  things?" 

The  animation  in  Alloway's  face  became  fixed 
as  though  it  had  been  chilled  into  immobility 
by  a  breath  of  frost.  Both  Bourne  and  his 
father  made  a  movement  of  tentative  protest. 
There  was  only  a  second  of  silence,  however, 
before  the  girl  said,  in  direct  answer,  but  almost 
dreamily:  "Where  does  one  learn  one's  mem- 
ories? I  wonder." 

She  drew  close  to  Bourne,  slipped  her  hand 
through  his  arm,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  as 

241 


COBWEB 

from  a  sudden  oblivion  of  all  else.  In  a  moment, 
in  a  flash  of  her  brown  eyes,  she  became  warm 
and  present  to  his  touch.  Forgotten  were 
fantasies,  legends,  and  all  the  gossamer  web  of 
mystery  she  had  chosen  to  weave  about  herself. 
In  spite  of  her  abnormal  pallor,  she  was  real. 
She  pulsated  visibly  to  the  happiness  of  the 
moment,  and,  gazing  with  the  trustful  fearless- 
ness of  an  untrapped  fawn  into  her  lover's  eyes, 
she  flaunted,  unashamed,  the  open  secret  of  her 
heart.  J.  E.  and  Angela  stared  at  her  in  amaze- 
ment, wondering  by  what  short  road  she  had 
arrived  at  the  consummate  wisdom  which  changes 
a  subject  by  the  veering  of  a  mood. 

"You  two  children  must  be  tired,"  said  J.  E., 
taking  Alloway's  hand  and  raising  it  to  his  lips 
while  his  eyes  looked  steadily  into  hers.  "Run 
along  to  bed.  Angela  and  I  want  to  sit  by  the 
fire  and  talk." 

Alloway  stood  on  tiptoe  to  kiss  him,  said  good 
night  to  Miss  Livingstone,  and  drew  Bourne 
toward  the  door.  While  she  was  yet  on  the 
stairs  Angela  followed  hurriedly  after  her,  pushed 
Ritt  aside  and  put  her  arms  around  the  girl.  "  My 
dear,"  she  whispered,  "your  loveliness  chokes  me. 
Forgive  an  old  woman.  Take  my  advice;  stick 
to  your  guns;  never  tell;  never  tell  us.  Only, 
I  do  want  you  to  love  me." 

242 


COBWEB 

Alloway  smiled  at  her,  a  wise  little  smile, 
already  mixed  with  dreams.  "I  decided  to  love 
you  at  the  dance,"  she  murmured. 

Sitting  in  the  great  leathern  couch  before  the 
fire,  J.  E.  and  Angela  kept  silence  for  a  long 
time,  then  on  the  same  impulse  they  raised  their 
eyes  and  studied  each  other's  faces  for  half- 
hidden  thoughts. 

"Where  can  she  have  come  from?"  said  Miss 
Livingstone,  finally. 

"  How  wonderful  of  her  to  come ! "  countered  J.  E. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  Angela,  impa- 
tiently, "but  it  doesn't  help  to  know  that  she 
is  incredible;  it  only  makes  it  worse.  If  I 
should  dream  myself  married,  John,  and  in  pos- 
session of  a  dream-daughter,  I  would  wish  her  to 
be  as  straightforward,  as  free  from  veneer,  and 
as  untouched  by  the  thousand  and  one  hypoc- 
risies of  the  humdrum  mask  of  life  as  this 
extraordinary  girl  with  her  amazing  possession 
not  only  of  herself,  but  of  you  and  of  me  and  of 
what  we  thought  we  alone  stood  for.  But  I 
would  be  afraid  to  have  her  quite  so  beautiful 
in  her  pallor  or  so  sudden  and  far  in  the  flights 
of  her  fancy.  I  couldn't  have  faith  enough  in 
my  own  strength  to  hold  her.  I've  been  trying 
to  compare  her,  and  I'm  desperate;  she  is  a 
denial  of  all  the  girls  I  know." 

243 


COBWEB 

"There  are  lots  of  girls,"  said  J.  E.,  thought- 
fully, "in  and  out  of  what  you  think  of  as  society, 
who  are  genuinely  good  at  heart  and  would  rise 
to  a  refreshing  plane  if  environment  gave  them 
half  a  chance.  It's  the  age  they  live  in  that  has 
made  ducks  and  drakes  of  what  used  to  be  their 
points  of  vantage.  Women  have  scrapped  the 
old  plant  before  they  built  the  new.  What  they 
lack  in  particular  is  an  accent  to  their  clothes 
and  beauty — some  break,  any  break  from  the 
smooth  running  of  the  standardized  model. 
And,  beyond  that,  they  need  the  mustard  seed 
of  imagination  which  alone  can  sustain  the 
flight  of  any  fancy.  You  see,  I  have  named 
the  two  things  you  would  have  feared  in  your 
dream-daughter.  To  me  Alloway  is  nothing 
more  wonderful  than  a  belated  bloom  on  some 
old  and  sturdy  stalk.  How  she  came  to  happen, 
though,  is  as  deep  a  mystery  as  ever  and  I,  for 
one,  am  content  to  take  her  on  her  own  terms." 

"You  may  be,"  said  Angela,  "and  I  tell  my- 
self that  I  am,  too,  though  I  don't  know  just 
how  long  I  can  hold  sheer,  plain-faced  curiosity 
by  the  throat.  But  what  about  Ritt?  " 

"You're  right  there,"  said  J.  E.  "You've 
put  your  finger  on  what  worries  me,  Angela.  A 
lover  and  a  closed  door  have  always  been  sworn 
enemies.  But  that's  Ritt's  battle  and  he'll  have 

244 


COBWEB 

to  fight  it.  You're  a  woman.  What  do  you 
think  of  her?  Does  she  truly  love  him  or  will 
she  wake  up  as  so  many  girls  nowadays  seem  to 
do,  as  though  they  had  been  married  in  their 
sleep?" 

Angela  thought  for  a  moment  before  she 
answered,  "Women  know  certain  classified  things 
about  one  another.  They  can  tell  a  cat,  a  hoy- 
den, a  Mrs.  Grundy,  or  an  apple  with  a  rotten 
core  across  a  room  at  the  first  meeting,  but  it  is 
rare  for  one  woman  to  know  another  as  you  or 
Ritt  have  probably  known  a  dozen  women." 

"That's  the  most  extraordinary  statement  I 
ever  heard  you  make,"  exclaimed  J.  E.,  turning 
his  head  to  stare  at  her.  "It  also  runs  counter- 
current  to  an  old  saying  which  we  men  have 
always  accepted  without  cavil,  to  the  effect 
that  we  can  never  know  women." 

"You  can't,"  said  Angela,  laughing,  "in  the 
sense  of  telling  where  they  will  jump  next,  or  in 
the  sense  of  their  whys  and  becauses.  That  isn't 
what  I  meant.  I  mean  this:  Take  two  women 
who  are  close  friends  and  both  of  whom  know 
you  and  trust  you,  J.  E.  Bourne.  They  will  tell 
you  intimate  things,  things  rooted  in  their 
hearts  and  wrapped  into  the  fiber  of  their  suf- 
fering lives  which  they  will  never  breathe  to  one 
another.  To  her  woman  friend  a  woman  is 

245 


COBWEB 

what  her  friend  has  grown  to  expect  her  to  be; 
she  isn't  a  hypocrite;  she  really  lives  in  that  ac- 
customed mask  as  one  might  occupy  the  same 
house  at  fixed  periods  of  the  year.  But  the  same 
woman  will  open  to  any  man  for  whom  she  has 
both  affection  and  faith  a  dozen  doors  into  those 
subterranean  channels  which  intersect  her  very 
foundations.  She  will  run  to  a  woman  with 
petty  confidences,  certain  troubles,  and  some  half 
truths  that  she  truly  believes  to  be  whole;  but 
to  a  man  she  doesn't  give  or  ask,  she  surrenders." 

"You  mean,"  said  J.  E.,  "that  Alloway  is 
more  apt  to  open  her  heart  to  me  than  to  you." 

"In  a  way,  yes,"  replied  Angela,  already 
wearied  by  her  own  logic,  "and  with  a  difference. 
John,  you  think  of  her  as  the  lingering  spirit  of 
a  generation.  That  is  nice  of  you;  it  opens  a 
door  on  your  own  lasting  faith.  You  ignore  the 
fact  that  women  know  no  generations.  Only 
the  medium  changes  through  which  their  eternal 
sameness  makes  its  chameleon  manifestations. 
You  lived  and  still  live  in  one  woman  and  see  all 
the  woman  of  her  time  within  her  own  radiance. 
I  love  you  for  it,  John.  Does  it  frighten  you  to 
have  me  tell  you  so?  " 

"No,"  said  J.  E.,  a  strange  flush  passing  over 
his  face.  "It  doesn't  frighten  me;  it's  the 
dearest  and  closest  thing  anyone  has  been  able 

246 


COBWEB 

to  say  to  me  for  many  years.  I  thank  you  for  it. 
But  you  couldn't  have  said  it  a  week  ago, 
Angela;  nor  could  I  have  dreamed  a  week  ago 
that  I  would  throw  open  my  wife's  rooms  to-day 
to  a  newcomer,  but  not  to  a  stranger — not  to  a 
stranger.  That  girl  has  done  things  to  us.  I 
can  see  you  again  in  pigtails  and  remember  how  I 
hated  you  in  school,  and,  somehow,  remembering 
it  makes  me  glow  with  affection  for  you  now.  I 
told  Ritt  I  was  going  to  get  a  lot  of  fun  watching 
your  face  to-night,  but  it  was  like  looking  at  a 
reflection  of  all  my  own  thoughts.  She  didn't 
put  us  to  shame,  exactly.  What  did  she  do?  " 

"I'll  tell  you,  John,"  said  Angela,  with  a 
whimsical  smile  at  herself,  "she  accepted  us." 

"So  she  did,"  said  J.  E.,  after  a  pause,  "into 
our  own  garden,  too."  They  kept  silence  for  a 
moment  and  then  he  continued,  "Angela,  didn't 
you  get  a  feeling  of  walking  in  remembered  paths, 
of  meeting  face  to  face  the  happiness  of  your  own 
youth?" 

Angela  drew  a  long  breath.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
"I  got  that  feeling,  and  now  I'm  going  home  to 
put  it  away  in  my  ribbon  box  before  I  lose  it. 
I'm  so  glad  you  let  me  be  with  all  of  you 
to-night." 

"Without  you,"  said  J.  E.,  rising  with  her, 
"something  would  have  been  missing,  some- 

247 


COBWEB 

thing  more  than  just  yourself.  Is  it  the  horses 
to-night  or  the  motor?"  he  asked,  as  he  rang  for 
Simon. 

' '  The  horses, ' '  said  Angela.  ' '  Thank  goodness 
I  had  the  instinct  not  to  drive  to  this  dinner  in  a 
motor." 

"Never  give  up  your  horses,  Angela,"  said 
J.  E.  "If  you  get  hard  up,  come  to  me.  Every 
time  I  see  a  coupe"  with  its  inevitable  bays  wait- 
ing in  the  side  streets  of  the  'teens,  forties, 
fifties,  and  sixties,  or  here  in  Murray  Hill,  I  say 
to  myself,  'New  York  still  lives.'  And  every 
time  I  see  them  drawn  up  at  the  ponderous  portal 
of  a  certain  ancient  institution  of  feminine  com- 
merce I  say,  'New  York  still  keeps  faith.'  You 
won't  give  them  up,  will  you?" 

"Never,  John,"  said  Angela,  laughing,  "es- 
pecially if  I  am  to  come  to  you  when  I'm  strapped. 
You  have  guessed  it;  they  are  the  link  which 
holds  me  to  a  tradition  from  which  I  make  my 
excursions  into  to-day  and  Coney  Island.  Your 
mind  has  been  hard  on  me  sometimes,  hasn't 
it?" 

J.  E.  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "Never," 
he  said  with  absolute  sincerity,  and  then  turned 
as  Simon  entered.  "Miss  Livingstone's  carriage." 

On  the  following  morning,  when  Ritt  Bourne 
came  down,  hoping  to  catch  his  father  at  break- 

248 


COBWEB 

fast,  Simon  announced  that  J.  E.  had  gone, 
leaving  a  message  that  he  had  been  called  away 
and  would  be  absent  for  a  week.  Ritt  wan- 
dered into  the  library  to  think  this  news  over; 
he  realized  that  his  father's  departure  had  not 
been  as  fortuitous  as  J.  E.  would  have  had  it 
appear.  The  son  was  accustomed  to  reading  a 
meaning  into  the  least  of  his  father's  actions,  and 
in  due  time  came  to  his  own  conclusions  regarding 
this  sudden  journey,  in  all  probability  at  great 
inconvenience.  He  was  filled  with  a  glow  of 
affection  and  soaring  admiration  for  his  father  at 
the  thought  that,  being  a  man  of  vast  affairs,  he 
could  still  hold  those  things  paramount  which 
concern  themselves  not  with  food  and  raiment 
and  the  high  cost  of  living,  but  with  the  main 
chance  for  happiness  between  two  mortals. 

He  went  back  thoughtfully  to  where  Alloway 
lay,  still  asleep  in  the  great  four-posted  bed 
which  seemed  to  hold  her  as  upon  an  altar. 
The  window  curtains  were  not  yet  drawn  open, 
and  in  the  dimly  filtered  light  she  appeared  to 
shine  as  though,  waking  or  sleeping,  an  undying 
flame  kept  vigil  within  her  body.  One  pale  arm, 
bare  to  the  shoulder,  was  upthrown  beneath 
her  head.  Its  gleaming  curves  lost  themselves 
in  the  loosened  flood  of  her  tawny  hair,  which 
shone  with  the  dull  but  living  glow  of  old  gold. 
249 


COBWEB 

Her  eyes  were  shut  tightly,  like  a  baby's;  her 
red  lips  were  barely  parted  and  seemed  to 
flutter  tremulously  to  the  even  rise  and  fall  of 
her  breasts,  faintly  molded  beneath  the  soft 
whiteness  of  her  girlish  nightgown.  To  Bourne 
she  seemed  infinitely  virginal,  as  though  love 
were  but  the  accolade  of  purity.  A  misty  memory 
of  his  mother  and  of  having  knelt  beside  that 
bed  years  and  years  ago  assailed  him.  With  his 
heart  thick  in  his  throat,  he  sank  to  his  knees 
and,  with  hands  clasped  and  outstretched,  fast- 
ened his  eyes  on  the  face  of  his  beloved. 

As  though  he  had  called  to  her,  Alloway 
awoke,  her  eyes  filling  slowly  with  the  perception 
of  the  exaltation  on  his  face.  Her  hand  stole 
out  from  its  nest  of  gold,  crept  into  his,  drew  it 
to  her,  pressed  it  above  her  heart.  "Eitt  my 
darling,  my  own  boy!"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  Alloway,"  he  cried,  blinking  the  tears 
from  his  eyes  and  smiling,  "I'm  so  glad  you  are 
awake!  It  isn't  fair  for  you  to  sleep  without 
me." 

She  laughed,  bent  her  dishevelled  head,  and 
kissed  his  fingers;  then  she  looked  him  in  the 
eyes  and  asked,  quite  soberly,  "Do  you  love 
me?" 

"I  love  you  so  much,"  said  Bourne,  fervently, 
"that  I'm  afraid  to  sleep  for  fear  I'll  lose  the 

250 


COBWEB 

dream  of  you.  I'm  like  a  man  to  whom  the  gods 
have  given  the  perfect  gift  on  condition  that  he 
watch  them  so  closely  that  they  can  never  steal 
it  back.  I  shall  go  mad  with  loving  you,  my 
darling;  but  it  can't  be  helped  and  in  the 
meantime  I  like  it." 

"If  that's  the  way  you  feel,"  said  Alloway, 
content  and  smiling,  "you  had  better  call  Janet 
before  you  run  away.  She'll  watch  me  for  you 
until  breakfast." 

For  a  week  the  old  house  played  the  role  of  a 
forgotten  isle  amid  the  lost  Islands  of  the  Blest. 
Its  placid,  silent  front  presented  an  impassable 
barrier  to  the  curious  world,  while  its  dignity 
seemed  to  assume  all  responsibility  for  the 
shamelessly  light-hearted  nest  building  that 
was  going  on  within  its  portal,  which  opened 
once  each  day  to  free  its  inmates  for  a  flight 
abroad  and  once  each  evening  to  take  them  in 
again.  They  went  eagerly,  they  came  back 
gladly,  for  within  the  hushing  walls  they  had 
found  a  whole  new  world  through  which  they 
wandered  hand  in  hand,  like  children,  on  breath- 
less journeys  of  discovery  along  dim  halls  to 
dark,  threatening  nooks  in  cellar  and  in  pungent 
attic.  From  these  tenebrous  outposts  they 
would  rush  back  in  assumed  panic  to  the  cheerful 
light  of  Alloway's  sitting  room.  She  would 
17  251 


COBWEB 

throw  open  its  door  and  stand  poised  for  a  mo- 
ment with  shining  eyes  and  with  hands  clasped 
upon  her  thumping  heart. 

"Look!"  she  would  cry.  "It  is  like  a  garden 
in  full  bloom." 

But  there  were  soberer  moments  in  the  twi- 
light of  the  dying  day  when  Bourne  would  sit 
with  her  in  the  broad  window,  seize  her  and 
crush  her  to  his  breast,  kiss  her  and  murmur 
broken  phrases  embracing  all  the  baffling  vague- 
ness of  his  hopes  and  fears.  "You  are  my  own, 
yet  not  my  own.  You  have  come  from  nowhere 
to  fill  my  heart,  and  if  it  should  wake  to  find 
you  gone  where  would  it  rush  to  find  you?  No- 
where. Nowhere." 

"Bitt!"  cried  Alloway.  "Oh,  Bitt!"  The 
tinge  of  animated  life  went  out  of  her  cheeks, 
leaving  them  dead  white  and  bloodless. 

"It  is  true,"  said  Bourne,  rushing  on.  "You 
yourself  are  real;  you  are  here  in  my  arms.  I 
cannoy  deny  you;  I  cannot  disbelieve  you,  but 
I  can  tremble  when  my  heart  tells  me  you  are  a 
visitor  held  only  in  part." 

Alloway  struggled  erect  within  the  circle  of  his 
arms  and  turned  her  face  to  his.  "Take  me, 
crush  me,  kill  me!"  she  cried,  her  eyes  flashing. 
"What  have  you  not  had  of  me?  What  do  you 
still  wish?  I  am  no  longer  Alloway;  I  am 

252 


COBWEB 

your  wife.  Shall  I  call  back  the  dream-girl  for 
you,  just  to  strip  her  filmy  clothes? — just — just 
to  shame  her?" 

"Forgive  me/'  murmured  Bourne,  striving  to 
draw  her  unyielding  body  to  him  again.  "You 
are  the  wonder  of  the  world  and  I  a  ragged 
pilgrim.  Forgive  what  I  have  said  and  some- 
times forgive  my  eyes.  Don't  be  hard  to  me 
or  my  heart  will  break.  If  I  hold  the  present 
truth  of  you,  what  else  matters?  You  yourself 
cannot  lie;  you  would  never  lie  to  me." 

Her  body  relaxed  in  his  arms  with  the  finality 
of  collapse.  "What  if  I  have  lied  to  you?"  she 
asked,  with  a  peculiar  calmness.  "What  if  all 
of  me  is  a  lie?" 

"You  dream-child  of  mystery,"  cried  Bourne 
already  happy  in  the  repossession  of  her  person, 
"how  could  you  lie?  You  are  the  very  cup  of 
truth  held  to  my  lips.  I  will  drink  of  you  so  and 
so  and  so,  "he  whispered,  kissing  her  eyes  and  brow 
and  hair,  "and  I  will  fill  my  veins  with  belief." 

Each  idyll,  as  each  week,  has  its  appointed  end. 
J.  E.  came  back  to  bask  in  the  new  radiance  of 
his  home,  but  not  to  renounce  old  habits.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  are  too  busy  ever  to  be 
in  the  way.  He  came,  and  with  his  coming  the 
house  assumed  an  air  of  satisfied  completion; 
he  went,  but  with  his  going  he  was  never  al- 

253 


COBWEB 

together  gone.  His  presence,  especially  in  the 
library,  had  a  lingering  power  which  was  in  itself 
a  promise  of  his  return.  On  his  first  meeting 
with  Ritt  and  Alloway  he  radiated  a  nervous 
satisfaction,  as  though  he  found  himself  freed  of 
foolish  fears,  but  on  later  occasions  his  shrewd 
eyes  sometimes  dwelt  on  them  with  a  persistent 
questioning  behind  their  scintillating  veil  of 
brilliance. 

Almost  immediately  after  his  arrival  Boies 
Stephen  presented  himself  at  the  office  and  asked 
urgently  for  an  interview.  J.  E.  received  him 
at  his  first  free  moment. 

"Well,  Boies,"  he  said,  "sit  down  for  a  mo- 
ment. What  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

"Shall  I  tell  you  straight  off  the  bat,  Mr. 
Bourne?"  asked  Stephen. 

"That's  the  best  way,"  said  J.  E.,  smiling. 
"It  will  prepossess  me  in  your  favor." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Stephen,  promptly,  but 
coloring  at  the  effrontery  of  his  request,  "I 
would  like  to  buy  Long  Leg  Hole." 

J.  E.  tapped  the  blotter  on  his  desk  rhythmic- 
ally with  a  paper  cutter.  After  a  pause  he 
looked  up  at  Stephen  again,  and  when  he  spoke 
his  words  showed  how  long  a  road  his  thoughts 
had  traveled. 

254 


COBWEB 

"Boies,"  he  said,  "there  isn't  enough  money 
loose  in  this  country  to  buy  Long  Leg  Hole. 
No,  don't  apologize,"  he  went  on,  raising  his 
hand  to  forestall  an  interruption.  "I  like  you 
all  the  more  for  wanting  to  buy  it.  It  speaks 
well  for  Long  Leg  Hole  and  better  for  yourself, 
and  it  gives  me  a  chance  to  say  a  thing  or  two 
to  you.  One  of  them  is  this:  the  reason  why  so 
many  people  build  when  they  could  buy  some- 
thing ready  made  for  much  less  money  is  because 
there  have  always  been,  and  please  God  there 
always  will  be,  souls  that  demand  tailor-made 
clothes." 

Stephen's  eyes  lighted  up  as  though  flashing  a 
message  to  the  effect  that  his  quick  brain  had 
snatched  up  all  of  J.  E.'s  meaning. 

"Another  of  them  is  this,"  continued  J.  E. 
"You  can't  buy  or  rent  a  tradition,  but  you  can 
breed  a  baker's  dozen  of  them  in  as  many  years 
if  you'll  begin  with  your  own  foundations.  My 
advice  to  you  and  Amelie  is  to  carve  your  own 
Long  Leg  Hole  somewhere,  anywhere,  from 
Mother  Earth;  to  save  what  she  gives  in  the 
way  of  shade  trees,  and  to  plant  your  own  fruit, 
not  because  it  will  be  cheaper  than  market 
stuff,  but  because  there's  no  sweeter  way  of 
measuring  the  years  or  a  child's  age  than  by  the 
growth  of  an  uncropped  apple  tree.  Traditions, 

255 


COBWEB 

my  boy,  are  not  all  gray  bearded;  they  are  the 
grip  of  any  home  on  a  man  and  a  woman  and 
their  young;  the  essence  of  all  those  things  which 
last  and  which,  being  born  in  fire,  keep  green  in 
ashes." 

"You  have  given  me  much  more  than  I  came 
for,  sir,"  said  Stephen,  rising.  "I  won't  thank 
you  for  it;  I'll  go  out  and  do  better  than  that. 
Before  I  go,  will  you  tell  me  what's  become  of 
Ritt?  We  parted  with  some  pretty  strong  talk, 
but  he's  not  the  sort  to  hold  anything  like  a 
grudge  to  the  extent  of  not  letting  his  friend  eat 
dirt.  I've  called  up  the  house  three  times  and 
been  there  twice,  but  Simon  has  been  too  much 
for  me.  He  says  Ritt  is  away,  but  I'm  sure  I 
saw  him  driving  his  car  and  the  pick  of  the 
peach  crop  up  the  Avenue  no  later  than  yester- 
day morning." 

"Ritt  is  holding  no  grudge  against  you,"  said 
J.  E.,  promptly,  and  then  paused.  "The  truth 
of  it  is,  Boies,"  he  continued,  as  though  he  had 
come  to  a  decision,  "he  has  forgotten  you  and 
the  world  for  the  present.  The  girl  whom  you 
saw  with  him  is  his  wife." 

"His  wife!"  gasped  Stephen,  his  eyes  starting 
from  his  head.  "When  could  he  have  done  it? 
Who  is  she?  Am  I  Rip  Van  Winkle?  Have 
Amelie  and  I  been  at  Long  Leg  Hole  for  ten  days 

256 


COBWEB 

or  ten  years?  Have  you  heard  whether  they 
have  put  my  boy  in  college?  How  many  chil- 
dren have  they?" 

"Who?"  asked  J.  E.,  following  his  invariable 
rule  of  giving  his  attention  first  to  the  last  of  a 
string  of  questions. 

"Ritt  and  his  wife,"  explained  Stephen, 
earnestly. 

"They  were  married  a  week  ago  yesterday," 
said  J.  E. 

"A  week  ago  yesterday!"  repeated  Stephen, 
blankly.  "Who  was  she?  I'll  take  my  oath  I 
never  saw  that  face  to  forget  it." 

"No,"  said  J.  E.,  easily,  "I  can't  imagine 
anyone  forgetting  her  or  her  face." 

Stephen  looked  at  him  with  something  of 
J.  E.'s  own  brand  of  shrewdness.  "Mr.  Bourne," 
he  said,  "Ritt  is  my  best  friend.  Is  it  all  right 
with  him,  and  with  you,  too?" 

"Boies,  I  don't  blame  you,"  said  J.  R.  "I'll 
tell  you,  without  speaking  for  Ritt,  that  she 
walked  into  that  door  and  became  the  apple  of 
my  eye  five  minutes  after  she  was  married." 

"After  she  was  married,"  repeated  Stephen. 

J.  E.  nodded.  "By  the  way,"  he  said,  as 
Stephen  turned  in  a  daze  toward  the  door,  "I 
kept  it  out  of  the  papers  as  her  wedding 
present." 

257 


COBWEB 

"Does  that  mean  I  can't  tell  Amelie?"  asked 
Stephen,  dully. 

"Not  at  all,  Boies,"  said  J.  E.,  smiling  almost 
compassionately.  "Tell  her  all  you  know." 

"All  I  know,"  repeated  Stephen  with  a 
twisted  smile.  "Thanks." 

"You'll  both  be  unhappy  until  you  meet  her," 
continued  J.  E.  "I  can't  tell  you  much  myself, 
but  I  can  say  this — that  to  me  and  to  Angela 
Livingstone,  for  instance,  the  girl  answers  all 
questions  in  herself." 

"I'm  glad  you  say  Ritt  is  all  right,"  said 
Stephen.  "I  remember  that  the  last  time  he 
was  down  at  my  place  I  had  my  doubts.  He  was 
full  of  a  cock-and-bull  story  about  a  girl  that 
cried  at  him  in  an  elevator." 

"That's  the  one,"  said  J.  E.  "She  cried  at 
him  again  and  he  married  her,  and  I  want  you 
to  know,  Boies,  that  he  did  a  good  job  and  that 
it's  putting  it  mildly  to  say  I'm  proud  of  him, 
and  of  her,  too." 

"Even  so,  I  wished  it  on  him,"  said  Stephen, 
cabalistically,  and  departed. 


Chapter  Fourteen 

BOURNE  was  too  much  in  love  for  his  own 
happiness;  he  had  never  learned  all  the  pitfalls 
which  beset  the  path  and  condition  of  possession. 
Like  most  of  his  sex,  he  had  passed  from  year  to 
year  and  from  age  to  age  taking  things  sensatory 
for  granted.  Few  men,  though  they  have  all 
the  facts  at  hand,  ever  visualize  to  themselves  the 
truth  that  the  body  has  a  personality  and  a  life 
of  its  own  independent  of  the  soul. 

Ritt  had  once  listened  to  a  masterly  analysis 
of  this  very  subject,  pronounced  by  the  greatest 
authority  of  his  day,  in  the  incongruous  surround- 
ings of  a  small  ship's  smoking  room  during  that 
hour  beyond  the  rules  when  the  steward  leaves 
the  lights  on  for  a  favored  lingering  group 
because  he  himself  is  interested  in  the  conversa- 
tion. But  on  that  occasion  the  youth  that  was 
Ritt  Bourne  had  not  absorbed  the  sayings  of  the 
great  man  as  capable  of  practical  application. 
He  had  been  tremendously  interested;  but  as  if 
to  prove  the  theory  which  was  being  expounded 
to  his  deaf  ears,  his  attention  had  been  fastened 
on  the  extraordinary  imposition  of  thought  over 
an  unfriendly  atmosphere  rather  than  on  the 
force  of  the  argument. 

259 


COBWEB 

A  scandal  had  taken  place  on  board,  and  while 
the  group  which  was  gathered  in  the  smoking 
room  happened  to  be  of  the  quality  which  does 
not  discuss  women,  there  had  occurred  a  sudden 
hiatus  in  the  conversation  which  each  felt  was 
due  to  the  same  cause,  the  same  indirect  sugges- 
tion that  had  set  the  minds  of  all  those  present 
to  thinking  of  the  girl  in  the  case. 

Into  this  pause  the  great  man  had  interjected 
his  sonorous  voice.  "The  human  body,"  he  said, 
"has  a  life  of  its  own,  independent  of  the  soul. 
All  the  bodies  of  all  the  women  in  the  world  are 
violins  upon  which  we  men  have  played;  some 
of  them  coarse  in  grain  and  heavy  to  the  touch; 
some  of  them  sound  and  clean  of  line;  and  some 
as  light,  as  packed  with  the  music  of  the  ages,  as 
tender  and  as  everlasting,  as  the  thin  shell  of 
harmony  itself.  To  the  knowing  player  the  body 
has  no  commerce  with  the  soul;  he  lifts  the  living 
fiddle  to  his  cheek  and,  eyes  intent  upon  the  great 
illusion,  his  deft  fingers  fall  lightly  on  those  stops 
ordained  to  nature's  uses  and,  in  the  measure  of 
his  skill  and  its  own  capacity,  the  marvel  in  his 
hold  gives  forth  its  appointed  sound.  It  may  be 
low  and  deep,  it  may  be  high,  thin,  and  shrill,  but 
to  some  it  has  been  given  to  hear,  utterly  dis- 
mayed, the  tune  of  immortal  love  rising  by  sweep 
and  throb  to  the  paradox  of  sudden  death  and  a 

260 


COBWEB 

cracked  sounding  board.  I  say  the  love  cry  of 
the  body  and  the  sob  of  the  soul  are  not  one; 
they  are  divided.  I  say  that  the  wreckage  of  a 
broken  fiddle  may  have  its  peaceful  halo,  shining 
supreme  above  the  sorry  plane  of  vengeance." 

He  stopped,  and  in  the  silence  raised  his  glass 
to  his  lips,  but  did  not  drink.  A  frown  gathered 
on  his  brow,  and  as  though  the  impartial  balance 
of  his  trained  mind  refused  to  leave  any  case  half 
stated,  he  replaced  the  glass  on  the  table  and 
continued.  "  And  now  the  player,"  he  said.  "I 
remember  a  great  master  and  the  night  of  a 
great  wager.  We  were  all  invited  guests  and 
all  men,  as  befitted  the  occasion  of  a  bet.  A  go- 
between  had  said  to  the  master,  'Ribeau  has 
wagered  a  hundred  thousand  francs  that  if  you 
will  come  to  dine  to-night  you  will  play  unasked 
for  his  guests.'  It  was  an  insolent  invitation. 
The  master  considered  it  for  a  moment  and  then, 
accepting  its  challenge,  said,  incisively,  'I  shall 
come;  I  will  not  play.' 

"We  were  twelve  at  table,  including  the  guest 
of  honor,  and  throughout  the  meal  our  host 
steered  the  desultory  conversation  clear  of  every 
reference  to  music.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  we 
talked  about;  I  only  know  that  the  keynote  was 
premeditated  banality.  After  dinner  we  were  led 
to  the  drawing-room,  where  we  had  engaged  to 

261 


COBWEB 

stay  till  midnight,  if  the  wager  were  not  settled 
earlier.  As  we  crossed  the  wide  threshold  the 
eyes  of  all  of  us  fell  upon  a  violin  lying  on  a  bare 
table  which  stood  in  significant  isolation  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  An  angry  flush  mounted 
to  the  brow  of  the  master;  the  rest  of  us 
smiled,  except  our  host.  He  continued  with- 
out a  break  the  inane  patter  of  the  dinner 
conversation. 

"We  stood  about  for  a  while,  but  gradually  one 
and  then  another  of  us  drew  near  to  the  violin. 
We  didn't  touch  it  or  mention  it,  perhaps  out  of 
some  idea  of  fair  play;  but  speaking  for  myself, 
I  can  say  it  was  because  I  recognized  in  the  in- 
strument the  lost  Stradivarius  which  had  been 
recently  sold  to  an  unknown  purchaser  at  a 
fabulous  price.  It  was  old  with  an  unwithering 
age.  The  mottled  brown,  shading  here  and  there 
into  black,  of  its  deep-bosomed  arch,  seemed  to 
have  taken  on  the  texture  of  living  bronze,  and 
yet,  so  delicate  were  its  merging  curves,  that 
it  appeared  a  thing  so  light  that  a  breath  might 
waft  it  away. 

"Needless  to"say  we  all  watched  the  master  out 
of  the  corners  of  our  eyes.  At  first  he  was 
blustering  in  his  feigned  indifference;  then  by 
visible  gradations  the  battle  which  was  going  bn 
in  his  breast  came  out  into  the  open  and  showed 

262 


COBWEB 

its  progress  in  nervous  laughter,  twitching  eye- 
brows, bulging  eyes,  strangely  fluttering  fingers, 
and  a  dozen  other  indications  of  a  deep-seated 
commotion. 

"The  moments  grew  tense  and,  drumming 
through  their  pulsating  stillness,  came  the  monot- 
onous voice  of  our  host  clinging  tenaciously  to  its 
string  of  platitudes.  No  one  paid  any  heed  to 
him,  least  of  all  the  master.  Gradually  a  pre- 
possession seemed  to  seize  upon  him;  he  sidled 
absorbedly  toward  the  violin  and,  without  look- 
ing down,  discovered  it  quickly  by  touch  alone 
and  dragged  a  trailing  finger  nail  across  the  four 
taut  strings.  They  were  accurately  tuned. 
Amazement  and  then  a  comical  terror  filled  his 
face  at  the  unexpected  Tightness  of  the  notes. 
They  hung  in  the  breathless  air  like  a  memory 
of  bells,  widely  spaced,  each  interval  a  blank 
world  of  unwritten  music  pleading  for  birth. 

"For  a  moment  we  thought  our  host's  wager 
won,  but  as  though  our  assurance  had  waked  him 
from  a  trance  the  master  rushed  from  the  room 
into  the  adjacent  hall,  snatched  up  his  cloak, 
clapped  on  his  quaint  beaver  hat,  started  toward 
the  door,  stopped,  whirled,  and  returned  as  if 
he  had  been  dragged  back  by  a  lariat.  His 
cloak  slipped  to  the  floor  and  with  both  hands 
outstretched  he  went  straight  to  the  violin, 
263 


COBWEB 

picked  it  up  tenderly,  raised  and  nestled  it  home. 
For  one  instant  the  old  man  and  his  hat  were 
ludicrous;  the  next,  they  were  sublime. 

"He  caught  up  the  bow,  and  at  its  first 
long-drawn  stroke  a  plaintive,  throbbing,  waking 
cry  quivered  as  from  some  time-locked  source 
of  omnipotent  life.  The  master  lifted  his  face; 
tears  were  pouring  down  his  cheeks.  He 
played  a  harmony  as  illusive  yet  as  individual 
as  the  disembodied  ghost  of  the  genuis  who  had 
stored  it  in  so  fragile  a  wooden  shell.  All  music 
poured  from  the  tiny  cavern,  swelled  to  an  over- 
whelming flood,  mounted  chord  upon  chord  to  an 
incredibly  aching  sweetness,  and  suddenly  burst 
the  bounds  of  the  finite,  cracked  as  to  a  pistol 
shot,  and  died  against  the  wall  of  eternal 
silence.  With  a  wailing  cry  of  anguish  the 
old  man  dropped  to  his  knees  beside  the 
wrecked  violin,  and  there  we  left  him  with  our 
host's  trembling  hand  laid  reassuringly  on  his 
shoulder." 

The  speaker  paused,  but  did  not  look  at  the 
rapt  faces  of  his  hearers.  "So  with  the  player 
who  trails  a  careless  finger  across  the  strings  of 
the  human  fiddle,"  he  continued,  "and  finds 
himself  snared  in  the  trap  of  mastery.  He  can 
no  more  stop  short  of  possession  than  can  a 
flowing  river  refuse  to  find  the  sea." 

264 


COBWEB 

Words,  only  words,  and  yet,  had  they  been 
present  in  Bourne's  mind  during  these  first  few 
weeks  of  his  marriage,  they  might  have  given 
him  a  single  truth,  standing  like  a  fixed  point, 
against  which  he  could  have  measured  the  speed 
of  the  flood  that  was  bearing  him  toward  in- 
dividual disaster.  They  might  even  have  served 
as  a  landmark  to  guide  him  into  deep  but 
tranquil  waters,  for  Alloway's  nature  was  pe- 
culiarly malleable.  She  might  have  respondedto 
reason,  though  with  a  sigh,  had  reasoning  been 
his  mood.  But  it  was  not.  He  had  accepted  in 
good  faith  a  strange  girl's  fanciful  stipulation 
that  he  should  possess  her  only  from  the  moment 
of  their  first  meeting,  but  now  the  Ritt  Bourne 
who  had  made  that  light-hearted  promise  seemed 
to  him  a  vague,  far-away  person  and  the  girl 
who  had  exacted  it  a  distant  though  lovable 
creature  unrelated  to  blood  and  bone. 

That  was  it.  He  and  Alloway  had  become 
real.  Without  renouncing  dreams,  they  had 
stepped  boldly  into  that  realm  of  bodily  unity 
which,  beyond  all  other  human  relationships, 
resents  the  merest  implication  of  division  or 
withdrawal.  She  herself  had  become  living 
water,  yet  he  knew  parched  lips  and  a  devastating 
thirst  for  the  unknown  sources  from  which  she 
had  sprung.  A  madness  fell  upon  him,  the  mad- 

265 


COBWEB 

ness  that  must  have  all  of  the  thing  it  loves 
even  at  the  price  of  killing. 

He  became  subject  to  fits  of  depression  follow- 
ing so  swiftly  upon  moments  of  absorbing  exalta- 
tion that  Alloway  was  first  bewildered,  then 
frightened,  and  finally  felt  herself  glowing  with  a 
slow,  steadily  mounting  anger  terrifying  in  its 
impersonal,  detached  intensity.  She  looked  upon 
this  strange,  new  emotion  within  herself  with 
startled,  unbelieving  eyes,  as  though  she  stood 
helpless  before  a  distant  but  rapidly  approach- 
ing conflagration. 

It  was  some  days  before  she  began  to  sense, 
at  first  vaguely,  the  true  source  of  Ritt's  unrest, 
and  then  her  anger  was  overwhelmed  and  lost 
in  a  feeling  of  numb  despair  which  rapidly 
crystallized  into  a  determination  to  stand  by  the 
guns  of  fancy  she  had  mounted  in  so  daringly 
playful  a  mood  and  fight  them  in  dead  earnest. 
Her  youth  fell  from  her  spirit,  though  not  from 
her  body;  the  imagination  upon  which  J.  E. 
had  seized  as  the  keynote  of  her  mind,  from  a 
wand  became  a  weapon  which  she  wielded  with 
deadly  effect,  leading  her  lover-husband  by 
reminiscence  of  one  far  and  colorful  scene  after 
another  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  bewildering 
maze. 

Just  as  some  trifling  event  or  fleeting  impres- 
266 


COBWEB 

sion  occurring  in  childhood  may  lay  the  founda- 
tion for  a  mature  life  of  tragedy,  so  had  the 
inspiration  of  Bourne's  theory  of  mystery  as  a 
holding  power  taken  possession  of  her  brain  at 
the  formative  period  of  her  awakening  into  love 
from  maidenhood  and  destroyed  all  other  and 
truer  values.  She  became  overnight  a  woman 
full  grown,  a  woman  of  one  idea  upon  which 
centered  a  host  of  vagaries  by  which  she  at- 
tempted to  divert  and  entrance  Ritt's  mind 
without  setting  it  at  rest. 

One  day  she  turned  on  him.  "You  are  not 
fair!"  she  cried,  her  lips  trembling,  her  eyes 
flashing.  "You  break  your  promise  with  your 
eyes  and  hands  and  in  your  mind  even  if  you  try 
to  keep  your  lips  from  speaking  the  things  we 
said  we  would  never  ask.  Sometimes  you  make 
me  feel  very  small,  as  though  to  be  your  wife 
and  your  playmate  and  plaything  and  even  a 
slave  willing  to  kiss  your  naked  feet  were  quite  a 
little  gift." 

She  threw  out  her  hands  and  dropped  them  at 
her  sides  with  a  falling  forward  of  her  shoulders, 
assuming  an  attitude  of  abnegation  and  despair. 
Her  head  drooped  and  her  eyes  glazed  with  the 
look  of  the  wounded  hart.  Bourne  threw  himself 
at  her  feet,  wrapped  his  arms  about  her  knees, 
and  buried  his  face  against  her.  His  whole 
18  267 


COBWEB 

frame  was  shaking  with  still-born  sobs  which 
died  in  the  dryness  of  his  throat,  wracked  him 
and  choked  him. 

"It  must  be  because  I  love  you,"  he  whispered, 
hoarsely,  as  though  groping  for  lost  foundations. 
"Forgive  me,  Alloway,  my  darling,  my  own  girl. 
I  didn't  know  that  love  could  be  such  a  brutal 
thing.  Sometimes  it  beats  my  body  with  flails, 
drives  me  mad  and  makes  me  turn  to  rend  you, 
as  though  by  tearing  you  apart  I  might  find  the 
nooks  and  crannies  still  hidden  in  your  soul. 
My  darling,  I  do  love  you;  my  heart  is  bursting 
because  I  love  you  so." 

She  sank  to  her  knees  within  the  circle  of  his 
arms.  "Then  take  me,  Ritt,"  she  whispered. 
"Hurt  me,  dear;  kill  me;  only  smile  first,  laugh 
first,  kiss  me."  She  became  all  tenderness;  her 
arms  twined  themselves  about  him,  drew  his 
head  down  to  her  breast. 

The  white  heat  of  these  battles,  ending  always 
in  a  paroxysm  of  mutual  surrender  without 
capitulation  of  the  point  at  issue,  carried  with  it 
its  own  peculiar  strain  which  had  the  effect  of 
stripping  from  them  both  the  normal  resiliency 
of  two  personalities  in  sane  though  intimate  con- 
tact, and  left  them  overtrained,  stripped  to  the 
nervous  fiber  of  a  feverish  existence.  But  there 
were  moments,  even  days,  when  sudden  lassitude 

268 


COBWEB 

would  fall  upon  them,  and,  lifting,  would  set 
them  free  to  laugh  and  trifle  happily  with  life. 
Those  were  days  marked  with  a  big  red  letter 
when  they  would  escape  from  themselves  into 
the  rapidly  searing  country  and  play  among 
the  gray  rocks  and  the  pungent,  drying  grass 
of  the  hilltops  like  veritable  children  of  Pan 
frolicking  madly  among  the  swirling  leaves  of 
autumn. 

Out  of  this  spirit  of  joy  Bourne  seized  one  day 
an  inspiration.  Obsessed  subconsciously  by  an 
unswerving  desire,  he  conceived  the  idea  of  laying 
out  a  hypothetical  map  based  on  all  the  casual 
allusions  to  distant  spots  on  the  earth's  surface 
which  Alloway  had  let  fall,  and  then  to  carry 
her  away  on  a  long  tour,  following  as  accurately 
as  he  could  the  actual  steps  of  her  life  in  the 
hope  that  she  would  betray  herself  or  be  betrayed 
by  some  collision  with  the  past.  The  cunning 
he  displayed  at  the  inception  of  this  scheme  went 
far  to  prove  that  he  was  indeed  a  madman 
imbued  with  a  superhuman  shrewdness. 

As  they  lay  on  their  backs  on  a  flat  rock  just 
comfortably  warmed  by  the  sun  of  a  rare  No- 
vember day,  he  raised  his  arm  and  pointed 
at  the  clouds.  "Let's  pick  out  the  ones  we  were 
born  under,"  he  said.  "That's  east  and  that's 
north;  so  you  know  south  and  west.  I  pick  that 

269 


COBWEB 

bulgy,  lazy  cloud  over  there.    It's  hanging  over 
Murray  Hill." 

He  had  turned  to  watch  her  face  with  an 
avidity  which  forced  her  to  give  more  than 
casual  attention  to  his  request.  Her  eyes  wan- 
dered first  to  the  east,  wavered,  and  then  dropped. 
"I  was  born  under  no  cloud,"  she  murmured. 
"I  was  born  at  the  meeting  of  night  and  day." 

By  the  grave  expression  of  her  face  he  knew 
that  there  was  a  meaning  buried  deep  in  her 
words,  could  he  only  fathom  it.  For  that  occa- 
sion he  was  content,  but  on  subsequent  days  he 
made  other  essays  of  a  like  nature  and  pieced 
his  results  laboriously  together  as  one  tries  out 
the  sections  of  a  jig-saw  puzzle  until  he  felt  suf- 
ficient assurance  to  produce  the  great  atlas  on  an 
evening  when  they  were  alone  in  the  library  and 
propose  a  new  diversion. 

"Let's  travel,"  he  said.  "Let's  travel  the 
whole  world  over." 

"Oh,  let's!"  cried  Alloway,  clapping  her  hands, 
hurling  herself  on  the  big  couch  before  the  fire 
and  tucking  her  feet  beneath  her. 

He  drew  up  a  low  table,  spread  the  atlas  open 
at  the  map  of  the  world,  sat  down  beside  her, 
and  seized  her  hand.  "Now  shut  your  eyes  so 
you  can't  cheat,  and  we'll  see  where  we 
begin." 

270 


COBWEB 

He  made  a  pointer  of  her  slender  forefinger, 
carried  it  through  the  air  in  wide  circles  which 
rapidly  diminished  until  he  plunged  it  down. 

"There,"  he  said.  "You  didn't  cheat,  did 
you?  It's  China." 

"I  didn't,"  said  Alloway,  laughing,  "but  what 
about  you?" 

"China,"  repeated  Bourne,  disregarding  her 
accusation  and  turning  the  leaves  of  the  great 
book  rapidly.  "Here  we  are.  We'll  start  some- 
where on  the  coast.  Everybody  does.  You  say 
wheie." 

"One  can  only  start  from  Shanghai,  if  one 
starts  at  all,"  said  Alloway,  enigmatically. 

He  led  her  a  great  tour  through  China,  visited 
place  after  place  familiar  to  their  many  long 
talks,  crossed  to  Japan  and  into  India,  flew  off 
at  a  tangent  to  Rio  and  the  River  Plate,  came 
back  and  approached  New  York  by  some  un- 
charted air  route  vaguely  depicted.  Long  before 
they  had  finished  the  journey  Alloway's  face 
had  experienced  a  peculiar  change  of  expression, 
at  first  wondering,  then  doubting,  and  finally 
fully  convinced.  She  lost  interest,  her  eyes 
wandered,  and  presently  she  arose  and  stretched 
her  arms  in  feigned  weariness. 

"I'm  tired  with  so  much  traveling,"  she  said. 
"Let  us  go  to  bed." 

271 


COBWEB 

"And  to-morrow  we'll  pack/'  said  Bourne, 
looking  up  at  her  with  a  peculiar  fixity. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Alloway. 

He  laughed  nervously.  "I  mean  just  that,  you 
dear  girl.  We  are  going  to  pack  for  that  very 
trip.  Don't  you  want  to  go?  " 

Alloway  looked  at  him  intently.  "No,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause,  "I  do  not  wish  to  go." 

"Oh,  Alloway,"  he  begged,  rising  and  putting 
his  arms  around  her,  "please  go!  Please  play 
my  game!  Oh,  darling,  please  don't  spoil  it! 
I  want  it  so  much  and  I'll  be  so  good,  so  very 
good." 

She  denied  him  again  and  again  and  with  each 
denial  he  returned  more  fervently  to  the  attack, 
petting  her,  pleading  with  her,  caressing  her 
with  all  those  arts  of  the  lover  which  break  the 
wills  and  the  hearts  of  women.  She  melted 
slowly  in  his  arms;  question  chased  question 
across  her  features,  but  in  the  end  it  was  an 
expression  of  terror  which  lay  like  a  transparent 
shadow  superimposed  over  the  yielding  and 
yearning  tenderness  of  her  face. 

"You  wish  it  more  than  anything  else?"  she 
asked. 

"More  than  anything  else,"  replied  Bourne. 

"I  will  go,"  murmured  Alloway  in  so  low  a 
tone  that  he  could  scarcely  hear  her,  and  then 

272 


COBWEB 

clung  to  him  with  such  trembling  hands  and  such 
a  quivering  of  her  whole  body  that  for  a  moment 
fright  made  him  forget  his  hard-won  victory. 

"My  darling,"  he  whispered,  "what  makes 
you  shake  so?  Why  are  you  afraid?" 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer.  She 
dropped  her  face  against  his  breast  and  pressed 
closely  to  him.  "Twice  I  have  lost  the  big  round 
world  and  found  it,"  she  said,  finally,  in  the 
same  low  and  far-away  tone.  "I  am  afraid  of 
losing  it  again  and  rinding  a  marble." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Bourne,  un- 
smiling, intent. 

"You  do  not  understand;  you  have  not  under- 
stood," murmured  Alloway,  lifting  her  face  and 
smiling  into  his  eyes;  then  she  released  herself 
and  cried,  gayly,  "Come,  I'll  race  you  to  the 
room." 

She  flew  up  the  spacious  stairs  like  a  disem- 
bodied sprite,  but  the  heart  of  the  child  in  her 
was  panting  to  bury  its  head  in  a  pillow. 

All  the  following  day  Bourne  rushed  from  one 
office  to  another,  studying  time-tables  and  sail- 
ings, securing  reservations  and  stopping  here  and 
there  to  make  a  purchase.  He  was  troubled  over 
the  mood  in  which  Alloway  had  given  in  to  him, 
but,  nevertheless,  he  was  in  feverish  haste  to  be 
off  and  put  his  fantastic  scheme  to  the  test. 

273 


COBWEB 

He  had  seen  his  father  and  had  talked  to  him  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  with  conscious  mental 
reservations.  J.  E.  had  subjected  him  to  such  a 
gimleting  from  his  penetrating  eyes  that  for  a 
moment  his  son  was  tempted  to  be  done  with 
half  truths  and  tell  his  father  all  the  madness 
and  the  hope  for  a  cure  that  was  in  his  heart; 
but  it  was  J.  E.  himself  who  prevented  the 
revelation  by  a  measured  judgment. 

"You  are  right  in  one  thing,"  he  said.  "You 
must  either  go  to  work  and  make  a  business  of 
settling  down,  or  travel.  If  you  can't  do  the  one 
thing,  there  remains  only  the  other." 

For  some  occult  reason  Ritt  Bourne  felt  that  his 
father  had  intrenched  himself  behind  reserva- 
tions also.  The  words  he  spoke  were  full  of 
sober  sense,  but  they  had  a  metallic  ring  which 
lacked  the  full  tone  of  an  expression  from  the 
heart.  They  were  not  hypocritical,  but  gave  the 
impression  that  J.  E.  realized  that  his  son  was 
face  to  face  with  a  situation  in  which  he  himself 
could  not  further  meddle  to  any  good.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  sensed  the  fever  in  Kitt's  veins 
and  perceived  with  one  flash  of  his  mental  vision 
that  it  must  run  its  course. 

While  Bourne  was  rushing  about  town,  com- 
pleting his  arrangements,  Alloway  sat  in  her 
bedroom,  listlessly  superintending  Janet's  pack- 

274 


COBWEB 

ing.  The  maid  looked  up  frequently  from  her 
work  to  study  her  mistress's  face  with  growing 
dissatisfaction.  She  found  upon  it  an  expres- 
sion of  wistful  sadness  such  as  it  had  not  borne 
even  in  the  loneliest  moments  of  her  long  sojourn 
at  the  hotel. 

"  You  are  not  very  keen  on  going  this  journey, 
are  you,  Miss  Alloway?"  she  asked. 

The  girl  always  smiled  at  this  form  of  address, 
so  suggestive  of  a  conjunction  between  respect 
and  affection,  which  Janet  had  continued  to  use 
in  spite  of  the  marriage,  apparently  from  some 
vague  intention  of  asserting  rights  in  her  mistress 
prior  and  superior  to  those  of  the  other  servants. 

"Not  very,"  said  Alloway. 

Janet  dropped  over  a  trunk  hanger  the  gar- 
ment she  was  about  to  fold.  "Are  you  happy? 
Are  you?"  she  asked,  with  a  suppressed  intensity 
quite  foreign  to  curiosity. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Alloway,  easily,  and  rose  from 
her  chair.  "I  think  I'll  go  out  and  buy  a  thing 
or  two,"  she  continued,  dressed  herself  in  an  in- 
conspicuous traveling  suit,  and  left  the  room  and 
presently  the  house.  Simon,  glancing  at  her 
absorbed  face,  suggested  the  car,  but  she  refused, 
saying  that  she  preferred  to  walk.  He  watched 
her  until  she  reached  Madison  Avenue,  where 
she  paused,  looked  at  her  watch,  and  then 

275 


COBWEB 

turned  uptown,  walking  swiftly,  her  head  erect. 
She  disappeared  from  his  view  and  from  the 
house  in  Murray  Hill;  she  did  not  come  back. 

Bourne  returned  very  late  for  lunch,  looked 
into  the  dining  room,  and  then  hurried  through 
the  house  in  search  of  his  wife.  He  was  keen  to 
talk  to  her,  anxious  to  infect  her  with  the  ex- 
uberance which  he  had  begun  to  feel  and  which 
had  eclipsed  the  forebodings  aroused  by  her 
reluctant  acquiescence  to  his  plans.  When  he 
learned  that  she  had  gone  out  to  shop  and  had 
not  yet  come  home  he  was  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  disproportionate  disappointment  which,  as  the 
grandfather's  clock  on  the  stairway  landing 
chimed  the  first  quarter  and  then  a  second, 
changed  to  annoyance  and  finally  to  alarm. 

He  questioned  Simon  as  the  last  member  of 
the  household  to  have  seen  her,  and  without 
thinking  what  he  did  walked  hatless  to  the  corner 
and  looked  up  and  down  the  street  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  Presently  he  came  to  himself, 
returned  hurriedly  to  the  house,  left  orders  that 
he  be  notified  of  his  wife's  return,  and  went 
lunchless  into  the  library.  For  an  hour  he 
walked  up  and  down,  arguing  with  himself  that 
Alloway  had  been  merely  delayed,  that  she  had 
become  interested  and  forgetful  of  time  and  that 
she  would  return  now  at  any  moment.  "The 

276 


COBWEB 

door  will  open  during  this  turn,"  he  would  say 
to  himself,  and  whirl  quickly  on  his  heel  with  a 
look  of  strained  expectancy  on  his  face. 

But  the  door  did  not  open,  and  when  two  hours 
had  passed  he  rang  for  Simon  and  changed  his 
order.  "When  my  father  comes,  Simon,  tell 
him  I'm  in  here,"  he  said.  Then  he  sat  down 
with  his  chin  cupped  in  his  hands  and  waited 
without  the  movement  of  a  muscle  or  the  flicker 
of  an  eyelash.  His  brain  was  divided;  one  part 
of  it  was  in  a  turmoil  of  search  for  unused  expedi- 
ents, of  speculations  and  impotent  striving  tow- 
ard a  solution  which  continued  to  elude  it. 
The  other  part  was  quite  calm  and  said  to  him, 
with  monotonous  repetition:  "I  told  you  so;  I 
have  been  telling  you  it  would  happen.  Stop 
your  questioning.  It's  no  use.  No  use." 


Chapter  Fifteen 

J.  E.  entered  the  library  slowly.  It  had  hardly 
needed  the  anxiety  on  Simon's  face  or  his  hushed 
message  to  bring  home  the  fact  that  a  disaster 
had  befallen.  The  house  itself  seemed  a  robbed 
shell,  a  darkened  habitation  from  which  the  life 
blood  had  been  suddenly  sapped.  Silences  John 
Bourne  had  never  before  noticed,  save  on  the 
day  of  terror  which  had  witnessed  the  passing  of 
his  wife,  seemed  to  smite  by  contradiction  on  his 
ear.  He  had  stopped  deliberately  in  the  hall 
and  listened  for  Alloway's  laughter;  but  instead 
he  heard  the  silences,  picked  them  out  as  one 
might  pick  out  vacancies  where  familiar  chairs 
and  tables  had  once  stood. 

He  walked  up  to  his  son  and  laid  his  hand  with 
a  light  touch  upon  his  shoulder.  Ritt  leaped  to 
his  feet,  stared  at  his  father,  and  then  sat  down 
again  heavily.  "She  has  gone,"  he  said. 

J.  E.  nodded,  drew  up  a  chair,  and  seated  him- 
self. For  an  instant  a  look  of  weariness  and  dis- 
appointment clouded  his  brow.  He  drew  a  deep 
breath,  and  after  a  long  pause  spoke.  "I  can't 
help  you,"  he  said,  "without  reproving  you  first. 
There  is  only  one  way  in  which  you  could  have 

278 


COBWEB 

hurt  Alloway — you  must  have  bruised  her  imag- 
ination. How  did  you  do  it?  " 

Ritt  kept  silence  for  a  moment;  then  he  leaned 
forward  in  his  chair  and  stammered  his  way 
into  his  story.  Presently  it  came  with  the  rush 
of  an  unloosed  flood.  He  poured  out  to  his 
father  all  the  tale  of  his  unreason  and  its  mount- 
ing madness  up  to  the  evolution  of  his  scheme 
for  a  voyage  of  discovery  aimed  solely  at  dis- 
closure of  Alloway's  secret. 

He  locked  his  hands  between  his  knees  and 
twisted  them  until  the  joints  snapped.  "And 
the  worst  of  it  is,"  he  said,  "that  I  knew  for 
what  ruin  I  was  headed,  and  couldn't  stop.  I 
felt  it  again  and  again  in  my  heart.  I  felt  it  on 
the  first  night  of  my  meeting  her,  when  she 
seemed  to  me  a  miraculous  visitor.  I  knew  it, 
yet  I  couldn't  stop;  I  couldn't  keep  myself 
from  trying  to  break  her  wings  so  that  she 
could  never  again  fly  away  along  the  path 
of  fancy  to  the  hidden  place  from  which  she 
came." 

The  utter  despondency  with  which  he  spoke 
aroused  J.  E.  to  an  effort  toward  comfort. 
"Don't  rush  to  meet  trouble,"  he  said.  "We 
may  still  find  her;  she  may  even  come  in  at  any 
moment." 

Ritt  shook  his  head.  "You  know  you  do  not 
279 


COBWEB 

believe  that  any  more  than  I  do.  Wherever  she 
came  from  there  she  has  gone." 

"If  she  were  any  other  woman,"  said  J.  E., 
"I  would  say  to  wait  and  she  would  surely  send 
for  her  clothes.  According  to  Simon,  she  took 
nothing,  not  even  a  hand  bag.  But  with  Alloway 
it's  different.  I  won't  lie  to  you  again.  I  be- 
lieve that  the  hope  of  your  finding  her  soon  lies 
mainly  in  the  strength  of  the  love  you  have 
planted  in  her  heart.  In  the  meantime  I  want 
you  to  feel  at  rest  on  one  point.  I  shall  em- 
ploy every  means  at  my  command  to  find  out 
for  you  which  way  she  has  taken  and  where  she 
has  gone.  Have  no  worry  on  that  score;  there 
is  nothing  that  you  can  think  of  that  I  won't 
do." 

Bourne  passed  that  night  in  the  library,  not 
because  he  expected  Alloway's  return,  but  from 
an  instinct  for  penance  and  in  the  desire  to  find 
himself  again,  to  drag  himself  back  to  those  fixed 
standards  of  comportment  from  which  he  had 
been  swept  by  his  surrender  to  an  unbridled  de- 
sire for  unlimited  mastery.  As  he  looked  back 
even  from  the  vantage  of  only  a  few  hours  of 
retrospection  he  was  dumfounded  at  the  chasm 
which  his  bereavement  had  opened  between  his 
present  sober  sanity  and  the  headstrong,  un- 
thinking, and  untender  paroxysm  of  selfishness 

280 


COBWEB 

which  had  found  its  culmination  in  a  last  straw 
of  unjust  demand.  It  seemed  to  him  utterly 
incredible  that  he  should  have  wounded  a  thing 
so  airy,  so  yielded  into  his  power  and  so  beloved 
as  the  girl  who  had  come  to  him  as  the  one  great 
gift  in  the  hand  of  God,  the  breathing  body  of  a 
young  man's  vision.  He  was  filled  with  a  great 
revulsion;  his  spirit  seemed  to  arise  and  turn  its 
back  on  his  body. 

When  J.  E.  entered  the  room  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, according  to  his  custom,  Ritt  got  up  and 
stood  erect  before  him.  "Father,"  he  said 
"I'm  going  to  Long  Leg  Hole.  I  have  an  ac- 
count to  settle  with  myself.  I  don't  know 
whether  Boies  and  Amelie  are  still  there,  and  I 
don't  care.  If  I  find  they're  in  the  way,  I'll  turn 
them  out.  In  any  case,  if  you  want  me,  if 
there's  any  news,  that's  where  I'll  be." 

J.  E.  nodded  his  ponderous  head.  "Perhaps 
I  didn't  make  it  clear  last  night,"  he  said,  "that 
I  had  finished  with  rebuking  you.  I  have,  my 
boy.  There  isn't  a  fiber  in  my  body  that  doesn't 
ache  with  the  wish  to  help  you — and  Alloway. 
Long  Leg  Hole  or  anywhere  else,  keep  her  with 
you.  I  like  to  think  that  we  Bournes  measure  the 
love  our  women  have  borne  us  by  our  own  con- 
stancy. It  sounds  a  strange  phrase,  but  it  ex- 
presses exactly  the  thought  I  want  to  share  with 

281 


COBWEB 

you;  it's  not  our  love,  but  theirs,  to  which  we 
must  do  honor  to  triumph." 

"I  shall  keep  her  with  me,"  said  Ritt,  simply, 
his  face  showing  white  after  his  long  vigil. 

He  moved  toward  the  door.  "A  moment, 
Ritt,"  said  his  father.  "I  must  bother  you 
with  one  question.  Did  Alloway  have  money 
with  her  and  do  you  know  how  much?  " 

Ritt  stopped  and  turned  very  slowly,  a  puzzled 
frown  on  his  brow.  "It's  an  extraordinary 
thing,  sir,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't  remember  ever 
speaking  or  thinking  of  money  with  Alloway. 
It  shows  you,  doesn't  it,  that  we  truly  lived  with 
our  dream;  that  she  was  something  to  me  just 
beyond  the  range  of  the  measuring  rule?  Only, 
now  that  you  ask  me  and  have  made  me  remem- 
ber it,  I  can  tell  you  that  she  has  always  had 
money;  money  to  buy  what  she  wished  when  I 
wasn't  with  her,  to  give  to  Janet,  and  to  leave 
lying  around." 

"That's  all,"  said  J.  E.  "Run  along.  A  cold 
bath  and  then  food  and  lots  of  cold  air.  Handle 
yourself  sanely;  take  her  with  you." 

Ritt  followed  his  father's  commands  until  he 
was  well  out  upon  the  open  road,  and  then  for  a 
space  he  abandoned  himself  to  the  full  extent  of 
the  power  of  the  car,  hurling  it  forward  at  such 
vertiginous  speed  that  he  found  himself  catching 

282 


COBWEB 

his  breath  spasmodically  and  with  aching  con- 
tractions of  his  throat.  Gradually  his  reck- 
lessness subsided  and  from  that  point  on  he 
drove  ever  more  slowly  until,  buried  deep  in 
thought,  he  passed  beyond  the  fronded  entrance 
to  Long  Leg  Hole  and,  when  he  noticed  his  omis- 
sion, had  to  drive  on  along  the  narrow  country 
road  to  find  space  in  which  to  turn. 

He  came  to  the  cross  ways  just  beyond  which 
he  and  Alloway  had  left  the  car  to  climb  to  High 
Rock  on  the  day  when  he  had  won  her.  He 
stopped  now  and  stared  at  the  weather-beaten 
signboard  with  its  two  illegible  fingers  pointing 
along  the  acute  angle  of  the  two  roads.  Pres- 
ently he  turned  the  car  and  drove  as  rapidly  as 
the  rough  way  would  permit  to  Long  Leg  Hole. 
With  mixed  feelings  he  saw  Boies  Stephen's 
touring  car  parked  in  a  thicket  of  trees  and  knew 
he  was  not  to  be  alone. 

As  he  walked  toward  the  house  Amelie  rushed 
out,  hatless,  to  meet  him,  calling,  "  Hello,  Ritt!" 
warmly  as  she  came  and  at  the  same  time  trying 
with  both  hands  behind  her  back  to  untie  her 
fluttering  apron.  He  noticed  a  peculiar  change 
in  her  face  from  all  the  years  he  had  known  it. 
The  deep  brown  eyes,  almost  blackish,  were  the 
same,  as  was  the  high  color  in  her  cheeks  and 
the  dark  gloss  of  her  wavy  hair;  yet  the  expres- 
19  283 


COBWEB 

sion  of  her  features  had  undergone  some  basic 
modification  which  robbed  them  completely  of 
that  self-sufficient  detachment  that  had  made  her 
at  one  and  the  same  time  the  most  affable  and 
unapproachable  of  women.  So  it  was  also  with 
the  tones  of  her  voice.  It  seemed  incredible  that 
the  voice  which  had  said,  "Hello,  Ritt,"  coolly 
and  politely  at  irregular  intervals  during  all  their 
lives,  without  ever  leaving  a  mark  on  memory, 
should  have  emitted  this  clarion  call  of  good 
fellowship,  interest,  and  welcome.  Bourne  was 
suddenly  glad  that  she  was  there;  not  until  he 
heard  his  own  sigh  of  relief  did  he  realize  how 
much  he  had  resented  her  presence  with  Boies  at 
Long  Leg  Hole. 

Amelie's  first  move  was  to  look  curiously  at 
Ritt's  car,  and  then  all  around  with  one  of  those 
swift,  sweeping  glances  with  which  women  are 
wont  to  register  instantly  every  item  in  any 
panorama  that  interests  them  for  an  intimate 
reason.  Her  eyes  failed  to  find  what  they  were 
seeking,  the  amazing  wife  of  whom  Boies  had 
told  her  so  little,  and  came  quite  suddenly  to 
rest  on  Bourne's  face. 

There  they  stayed.  She  said  not  a  word,  and 
yet  in  the  long  moment  during  which  she  looked 
at  him  he  felt  her  growing  tender  in  the  reading 
of  his  catastrophe,  not  as  men  read  by  word  and 

284 


COBWEB 

line  and  page,  but  as  women  comprehend 
wholly  and  at  once  with  equal  heart  and  eye. 
Her  face  sobered,  retained  its  softness,  yet 
seemed  to  abjure  sentimentality.  The  calm, 
practical  Amelie  of  other  days  was  by  no  means 
dead;  she  took  Bourne's  hand  as  frankly  as  she 
would  have  grasped  that  of  one  of  her  own  babies 
and  led  him  off  to  the  house. 

"I  don't  know  where  Boies  is,"  she  said,  as 
she  forced  him  into  a  comfortable  chair  and  then 
went  about  her  business.  "He's  been  starting 
out  at  daybreak  lately  to  take  tremendous 
tramps.  He's  cataloguing  all  the  places  where 
motor  cars  can't  go.  You  know,  we  are 
going  to  find  and  build  a  Long  Leg  Hole  of 
our  own." 

"No?"  said  Ritt,  his  interest  aroused. 

"Uhhm!"  mumbled  Amelie,  testing  the  con- 
sistency of  some  mixture  by  letting  it  drip  from 
a  wooden  spoon.  "We'll  keep  an  apartment  in 
town  for  dead  winter  and  school  and  that  sort 
of  thing,  but  in  the  summers  we  will  build, 
slowly.  Every  time  Boies  finds  a  likely  place  he 
drives  me  as  near  as  we  can  get  to  it  on  the  next 
day,  and  we  look  it  over  together  and  talk  and 
plan  and  get  excited  and  argue  and  quarrel  and 
make  it  up  again  and — and  grow  young  and 
foolish  and — and  like  it." 

285 


COBWEB 

Ritt  smiled  in  spite  of  his  abstraction.  "You 
seem  to  be  very  busy,"  he  said. 

Amelie  flashed  a  glance  at  him  and  laughed  a 
low,  chuckling  laugh.  "Very,"  she  said.  She 
dropped  the  spoon  into  the  big  yellow  bowl  of 
batter  and  turned  toward  him.  "And  it's  all 
due  to  you,"  she  continued,  "to  the  mad  streak 
in  you  which  I  had  never  guessed  when  I  called 
you  slack  water.  When  Boies  comes  I'm  going 
to  put  my  arms  around  you  and  kiss  you  if  you 
don't  mind." 

A  spasm  crossed  Bourne's  face  and  passed, 
leaving  it  peculiarly  calm.  "I  wouldn't  mind 
ordinarily,  Amelie,"  he  said,  with  a  frank  sin- 
cerity which  stood  out  stark  against  the  back- 
ground of  her  kindly  banter,  "but  to-day  I 
couldn't  stand  it,  even  from  you." 

Amelie's  face  grew  grave  with  a  sweetness  he 
had  never  before  seen  upon  it.  She  took  off  her 
apron,  laid  it  aside,  drew  up  a  stool,  sat  upon  it 
close  beside  his  knees,  but  not  touching  him,  and 
waited.  He  glanced  down  at  her  and  for  an 
instant  a  flush  mounted  to  his  cheeks  while  he 
hung  poised  between  annoyance  and  an  aching 
desire  to  accept  her  gentle  invitation  and  pour 
out  his  heart.  In  the  end  he  chose  a  middle 
course;  he  laid  trembling  fingers  lightly  upon 
her  shoulder. 

286 


COBWEB 

"Not  to-day,  Amelie,"  he  said.  "I  want  to, 
I  really  do;  but  somehow  I  can't." 

"It's  just  as  well,  Ritt,"  she  said,  rising  quickly, 
"because  Boies  is  coming.  I  heard  his  whistle. 
But  remember  this,  boy — I  can  help  you.  I 
don't  know  why,  but  I  feel  it.  Perhaps  it's  just 
because  you  first  helped  me." 

She  went  to  the  door  and  passed  swiftly  from 
his  view.  He  braced  himself  to  face  a  boisterous 
welcome  from  Boies,  but,  as  moment  after  mo- 
ment passed  and  he  remained  undisturbed,  his 
tense  features  relaxed  and  with  a  feeling  of 
warm  gratitude  toward  Amelie  he  realized  that 
her  understanding  had  already  begun  to  serve 
him. 

Boies  came  in  finally.  " Hello,  Ritt,  old  man! " 
he  said,  holding  out  his  hand.  "No  use  telling 
you  Amelie  and  I  are  mighty  glad  to  see  you. 
Come  and  wash  up  and  let  me  give  you  a  fresh 
shirt.  What  do  you  mean  by  wearing  a  stiff 
collar  out  here?  " 

"I  didn't  think,"  said  Bourne,  "but  I've  got  a 
bag  out  in  the  car  that  Simon  packed  for  me, 
and  he's  sure  to  have  done  the  right  thing. 
Ill  fetch  it." 

The  two  friends  walked  out  together,  and  with 
the  instinct  for  tapping  another  man's  surest 
sources  of  enthusiasm  which  was  one  of  his  most 

287 


COBWEB 

lovable  characteristics,  Bourne  said,  "Amelie 
tells  me  you're  looking  for  another  Long  Leg 
Hole." 

Stephen  stopped  in  his  stride  and  his  eyes  lit 
up.  "We  are,  Ritt,"  he  said.  "We're  looking 
with  both  our  hearts  and  our  heads.  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  tell  you  just  how  much  we  owe 
to  you  and  to  your  wonderful  old  man  and  to 
Long  Leg  Hole;  I  won't  even  try.  You'll  have 
just  to  accept  it  as  something  that  is  tied  into  the 
years  you  and  I  have  knocked  around  together 
and  that  will  show  up  only  with  wear  like  the 
bottom  strings  in  a  jolly  old  carpet.  We  have 
found  one  or  two  places  that  will  certainly  do, 
but  we  are  making  sure  that  there  is  no  better. 
Do  you  want  to  know  the  greatest  good  I've 
got  out  of  the  search?  " 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Bourne,  obligingly. 

"The  visualization  of  the  years  ahead,"  said 
Stephen,  promptly,  showing  that  he  had  thought 
the  matter  out.  "We  Americans,  Ritt,  your 
sort  and  mine,  have  lost  the  roundness  of  life. 
We  are  all  specialists,  experts  walking  a  tight 
rope.  Even  when  some  Johnny  gets  a  glimmer- 
ing of  the  fact  that  something  is  wrong,  what 
does  he  do?  He  specializes  in  going  back  to 
nature  as  if  he  had  been  bitten  by  a  specific 
bug  and  had  to  take  a  specific  cure.  All  this 

288 


COBWEB 

may  sound  like  rot,  but  I  know  exactly  what 
I'm  trying  to  say.  I'm  trying  to  show  you  that 
when  a  man  sits  on  a  gray  rock  at  the  edge  of  a 
wooded  building  site,  with  his  woman  at  his 
side,  and  starts  to  study  out  his  years  as  an 
accumulation  and  not  as  the  first  lap  of  a  relay 
race,  he  is  on  the  road  to  discovering  the  round 
ball  of  the  whole  world  within  the  little  maze 
of  the  thing  we  carelessly  call  home.  Do  you 
get  that?  It's  a  bit  highbrow." 

"I  get  it,"  said  Bourne,  unsmiling.  He 
picked  up  his  bag  and  they  returned  to  the 
house. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Stephen,  in  sudden  dis- 
covery. "If  you've  come  to  stay,  where  do  you 
sleep?  Or  are  we  evicted?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Bourne.  "I  sleep  here,  on 
the  couch." 

Both  Amelie  and  Boies  stared  at  him,  con- 
fused and  puzzled.  He  stepped  to  a  pillar  at  the 
side  of  the  room,  pressed  one  of  the  floor  boards, 
which  released  a  spring,  Hf ted  the  facing  from  the 
upright,  and  revealed  a  high  roll  of  canvas 
arranged  on  a  spool.  He  drew  it  out,  carried  it 
around  one  of  the  two  stanchions  which  sup- 
ported the  broad  sweep  of  the  heavy  roof  beams, 
turned  at  right  angles  and  fastened  it  to  a  row 
of  hooks  on  the  wall  at  the  head  of  the  couch, 


COBWEB 

remaining  himself  within  the  privacy  of  the 
quickly  constructed  room  to  change  his  shirt. 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered!"  he  heard  Stephen 
exclaim  to  Amelie.  "So  that's  what  those  hooks 
are  for!" 

After  the  midday  dinner  he  left  them,  wan- 
dered about  the  place  aimlessly,  and  then  struck 
out  for  High  Rock,  beckoning  from  across  the 
valley.  He  reached  it  and  climbed  down  to  the 
ledge  where  he  had  sat  with  Alloway  so  many 
aeons  ago,  where  he  had  first  kissed  her,  first 
dared  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  whence  they 
had  looked  upon  the  whole  world  spread  like  a 
gay  carpet  and  crying  out  for  their  feet  to  come 
down  from  the  ethereal  heights  and  tread  its 
flowered  pattern.  That  day  seemed  very  long 
ago;  he  looked  upon  it  now  as  one  gazes  in  one's 
mind  at  some  remembered  scene  of  beauty. 
The  keen  wind,  whipping  the  last  leaves  from  the 
tracery  of  the  bare  limbs  of  naked  trees,  was  no 
cleaner  or  sharper  than  the  spaces  of  his  mind  and 
vision.  The  fever  had  gone  out  of  his  blood,  the 
madness  from  his  brain. 

Sitting  on  that  roof  of  their  own  lost  world, 
he  saw  Alloway  and  he  saw  himself  as  they  had 
been  when  caught  in  the  maelstrom  of  their  own 
emotions,  carried  on  the  turbulent  crest  of  a 
spillway  of  wasted  waters,  a  thing  of  grandeur  in 

290 


COBWEB 

itself,  but  flowing  to  no  noble  ends.  For  the 
first  time  in  the  too-hurried  days  of  his  winged 
flight  above  the  plane  where  human  feet  eventu- 
ally must  tread  he  saw  Alloway,  the  tender 
stranger,  in  the  full  proportions  of  her  native 
strength,  and  measured  all  the  length  and 
breadth  and  the  amazing  profundity  of  the 
individual  river  of  life  which  she  had  poured 
recklessly  once  and  forever  from  her  heart. 
"That's  how  love  is  given,"  he  muttered,  bro- 
kenly, and  thought  long  on  the  sorry  part  he 
himself  had  played. 

He  asked  himself  what  mattered  it  by  what 
road  she  had  come  from  her  hidden  land  of 
fable,  pale  flesh  grown  warm  from  out  a  mist 
of  dreams,  and  upbraided  himself  again  and 
again,  not  for  having  loved  and  taken  her  so 
passionately,  but  because  in  the  fire  of  the  great 
test  understanding  had  failed  him  and  robbed 
him  of  the  enduring  power  of  those  who  are 
steadfast  in  waiting.  He  had  been  guilty  of 
running  amuck  among  the  still  flowers  of  a 
walled  garden,  of  breaking  butterflies'  wings,  of 
striving  to  sweep  up  the  star  dust  from  his  own 
heaven. 

At  this  thought  he  sat  suddenly  erect  to  the 
realization  that  Alloway's  wings  had  escaped  his 
destroying  clutch.  For  whatever  reason,  the 

291 


COBWEB 

strength  of  her  single  purpose  and  desire  had 
outmatched  his.  In  that  nowhere  to  which  she 
had  returned  she  was  still  whole,  still  endowed 
with  all  those  minute  realities  of  person  which, 
finding  their  roots  in  the  deep  soil  of  generations, 
endure  through  stress,  turmoil,  and  suffering  and 
stand  at  last  in  unity  like  the  evergreen  column 
of  a  cypress,  serene  above  the  tune-stained  tab- 
lets of  the  little  dead. 

Not  for  a  moment  did  he  attribute  to  her  any 
hysterical  deed;  whence  she  had  come,  there  she 
had  gone,  and  no  farther.  He  knew  it  beyond 
even  the  birth  of  suspicion.  Being  life  itself, 
concreted  for  the  renewal  of  one  man's  faith 
in  a  triumphant  aspiration,  she  could  do  no 
other  than  keep  tryst  with  her  own  destiny. 
Somewhere  she  walked  with  beating  heart  pul- 
sating in  the  white  temple  of  her  body,  placid  of 
brow,  wistful  of  face,  and  with  the  sadness  of  a 
new  memory,  ineffably  sweet  and  bitter,  written 
deep  into  her  luminous  eyes  and  anchoring  her 
illusive  spirit  to  the  very  human  rock  of  this 
world's  grief. 

That  thought  dragged  him  to  his  feet  and  to  a 
despondent  gesture  of  half -lifted  arms;  it  made 
his  heart  all  but  burst  with  an  access  of  new 
longing  for  her.  Realizing  his  impotence,  he 
turned,  climbed  the  rock,  and  fled  from  the 

292 


COBWEB 

cruelly  vivid  visualization  of  her  deep-breathing 
reality  and  human  nearness.  For  a  while  he 
crashed  blindly  through  bracken,  brush,  and 
thicket;  then  his  pace  steadied  gradually  to  a 
long,  purposeful  stride  which  devoured  mile  after 
mile  and  brought  him  back  by  the  sweep  of  a 
wide  circle  of  the  rough  hillsides,  exhausted,  but 
outwardly  and  inwardly  calm,  to  the  log  cabin 
at  Long  Leg  Hole.  Boies  and  Amelie,  wrapped  in 
coats  and  rugs,  were  sitting  star-gazing  at  the 
verge  of  the  deep,  mirrorlike  tarn. 

"You'll  find  your  supper  at  the  back  of  the 
stove,  Ritt,"  called  Amelie.  "We  had  ours 
ages  ago." 

"  Thank  you,  Amelie,"  he  called  back.  "  Good 
night  to  you  both." 

He  entered  the  house,  went  to  bed,  and  slept. 
Day  broke,  Boies  departed,  and  the  early- 
winter  sun  was  well  along  its  low  arch  across  the 
heavens  when  at  last  he  awoke  to  the  rejuvenated 
eagerness  of  a  healthy  body,  only  to  have  his 
unfounded  elation  sink  swiftly  back  to  the  bed- 
rock level  of  a  dreary  outlook  robbed  of  any 
saving  gleam  of  hope.  Nevertheless,  he  slipped 
on  an  overcoat  and,  calling  to  Amelie  to  keep 
to  the  house  while  he  had  his  bath,  he  ran  to  the 
edge  of  the  overhanging  rock,  stripped,  and 
plunged  headlong  into  the  icy  water.  He 

293 


COBWEB 

struck  out  with1  a  furious  energy,  and,  responding 
to  the  call,  his  chilled  blood  grew  warm,  moved, 
raced,  and  finally  tingled  in  his  veins.  He 
plowed  his  head  through  the  cold  flood  until 
the  whole  intricate  mechanism  of  his  over- 
strained nerves  tuned  itself  to  a  new  accord 
with  a  universe  stripped  to  its  hard  and  primal 
attributes,  but  somehow  infinitely  enhanced  even 
in  its  desolation. 

When  he  came  in  and  had  dressed,  Amelie 
served  him  as  she  had  served  Boies  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  first  meal  in  that  house,  but  with  no 
spirit  of  rebellious  or  teasing  banter.  She  moved 
about  the  austere  interior  with  a  quiet  dignity, 
as  though  the  weeks  she  had  spent  there  had 
imbued  her  with  some  of  the  occult  grandeur 
which  attends  all  simple  things  simply  done 
through  sympathy  with  the  basic  tasks  of  life. 
She  had  become  graceful  not  only  in  action,  but 
in  underlying  spirit,  and  when  he  had  done  eating, 
his  eyes  meanwhile  studying  her  with  a  puzzled 
curiosity,  it  was  with  a  supreme  naturalness  that 
she  took  him  by  the  hand,  led  him  to  the  freshly 
made  couch,  and  made  him  sit  down  beside  her. 
She  turned  eyes  full  of  a  soft  gravity  upon  his  face. 

"Ritt,"  she  said,  "tell me  everything  or  I  shall 
scream  because  you  will  not  let  me  help  you. 
I  know  I  can  help  you." 

294 


Chapter  Sixteen 

RITT  unburdened  his  heart,  but  not  as  he  had 
done  to  his  father,  for  there  is  a  subtle  difference 
in  the  way  a  man  talks  of  the  woman  he  loves  to 
any  male,  however  near  to  him,  and  the  way  he 
approaches  a  woman  of  whose  sympathy  he  is 
sure  with  the  selfsame  story.  In  relating  to  his 
father  what  had  happened  he  had  brought  to  bear 
all  his  powers  of  narrative  and  introspection, 
piling  one  detail  upon  another  in  orderly  se- 
quence; but  with  Amelie  he  unloosed  emotion 
and  sensation  by  vivid  flashes  and  left  it  to  her 
instinct  to  illumine  the  dark  reaches  in  between. 
"Ritt,"  said  Amelie,  when  he  had  finished, 
"women  aren't  different  from  men  by  fits  and 
starts,  but  deep  down  and  steadily.  For  in- 
stance, a  man  likes  to  say,  'I  shall  be  on  deck 
early,  every  morning,  before  breakfast/  or,  'I 
shall  be  at  the  turn  of  the  lane  at  ten  minutes 
after  four/  but  the  girl  never  willingly  says  she 
will  be  on  deck  early  every  day,  or  walking  in  the 
lane  in  the  afternoon.  Without  telling  even  her- 
self, she  intends  to  be  there,  but  she  would  so 
much  rather  the  man  would  learn  to  find  her 
without  words  or  a  fixed  time-table.  It's  in 
these  trifling  things  of  so  much  importance  that 

295 


COBWEB 

men  never  learn  patience.  They  wish  to  take 
no  chances,  but  the  girl  is  willing  to  play  with 
fate  for  the  sake  of  her  belief  in  the  reading  power 
of  love.  Do  you  understand  me?  " 

Ritt  nodded,  but  did  not  speak.  "This 
lovely  girl,"  continued  Amelie,  "whom  you  have 
lost  from  sight  hasn't  gone  very  far  in  the 
flesh;  before  another  day  is  over  your  father  will 
have  found  out  where  she  is.  Probably  all  he 
need  do  is  to  persuade  the  hotel  people  to  show 
him  the  register.  I  can't  imagine  the  girl  you 
have  pictured  premeditating  a  false  address. 
Can  you?" 

Ritt  started  and  looked  at  Amelie  with  a  gleam 
of  admiration  and  hope.  "You  are  right,"  he 
said,  and  half  arose,  as  if  to  start  for  town  at  once. 

She  drew  him  back  beside  her.  "Wait,"  she 
said.  "Are  you  quite  sure  you  are  ready  to  find 
her?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Ritt. 

"I  mean,"  replied  Amelie,  "that  if  you  try  to 
rush  in  again  on  the  same  ground  on  which  you 
lost  her  you  will  not  find  her.  Don't  you  sup- 
pose that  she  knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  you  can 
trace  her  down?  Ritt  dear,  the  part  of  her  which 
you  have  missed  can't  be  taken  by  assault;  her 
flesh  isn't  waiting  for  you  at  all.  I  believe  that 
to-day,  wherever  she  is,  she  is  as  free  from  that 

296 


COBWEB 

sort  of  aching  as  a  bird  in  midair.  But  that 
doesn't  mean  that  her  spirit  may  not  be  standing 
with  arms  held  as  wide  as  the  whole  wide  world." 

"If  they  are,"  said  Ritt,  hoarsely,  "you 
needn't  worry.  I  sha'n't  fail  her  again." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  few  moments,  Amelie 
thoughtful  and  Ritt  nervously  glancing  at  the 
door  as  though  he  were  impatient  to  be  off. 

"Do  you  realize,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand 
again  on  his  arm,  "that  you  haven't  once  men- 
tioned her  name  to  me?" 

He  paused  for  an  instant  and  then  said,  "Her 
given  name  is  Alloway.  Her  last  name  was — " 

"Alloway!"  interrupted  Amelie,  quickly. 
"One  couldn't  possibly  know  two  girls  of  that 
old  Scotch  name;  it's  too  unusual." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Ritt,  absently. 

"I  mean,"  continued  Amelie,  in  her  old-time 
practical  voice,  "that  she  must  be  Alloway 
Rittenhouse  Schuyler,  the  daughter  of  Eben 
Rittenhouse  Schuyler  who  died  over  a  year  ago. 
He  was  a  second  cousin  of  your  mother's  and  an 
extraordinary  recluse.  He  was  quite  awfully 
rich,  married  his  coachman's  daughter,  and  be- 
cause his  world  was  rough  to  her  he  built  a  new 
one  in  her  heart  and  never  left  it  but  once.  Ritt, 
don't  you  remember  Alloway?" 

Bourne's  face  was  deadly  white;  he  was 
297 


COBWEB 

crushing  Amelia's  fingers  in  his  hand  and  staring 
wide  eyed  and  blankly  before  him.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  mean,"  he  said,  in  so  low  a  voice 
that  she  barely  heard  him. 

"It  must  be  all  of  twenty  years  ago,"  con- 
tinued Amelie,  evenly,  "just  before  your  mother 
died.  I'm  too  young  to  remember  of  myself, 
but  I've  been  told  that  your  mother  had  a 
premonition  of  her  own  end,  and  as  it  approached 
she  did  a  number  of  quite  wonderful  things, 
deliberately,  weeks  before  she  went.  This  was 
one  of  those  things:  She  sent  for  all  of  her 
acquaintance  whom  she  knew  to  have  had  some 
great  trouble  in  their  lives  and  talked  to  each 
one  of  them  singly  in  that  adorable  room  I  saw 
once  only  and  have  never  forgotten.  They  say 
of  her  that  all  her  life  she  had  lived  within  a  deep 
well  of  peace  and  that  she  considered  it  a  legacy 
which  she  might  bequeath  to  those  who  most 
needed  it.  Eben  Schuyler  made  his  only  visit 
to  town,  after  the  death  of  his  wife  in  child- 
birth, because  your  mother  sent  for  him.  He 
brought  his  little  three-year-old  girl  with  him, 
and  while  he  talked  with  your  mother  the  three 
of  us  played  in  the  big  hall  and  on  the  staircase — 
Alloway,  you,  and  I.  Don't  you  remember  her, 
Ritt?" 

Bourne  was  sitting  very  erect,  his  face  alert 
298 


COBWEB 

with  a  breathless  anticipation  of  recollection. 
"Go  on,"  he  said. 

"She  was  a  lovely  child,"  continued  Amelie, 
"the  loveliest  child  I  have  seen  in  all  my  days. 
Her  beauty  didn't  seem  real,  but  at  the  same  time 
you  knew  it  could  never  pass  as  the  beauty  of  so 
many  charming  babies  does  pass  away  with  then- 
growing  up.  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  but  I  re- 
member touching  the  spun  floss  of  her  hair  with 
a  sort  of  passionate  ecstasy.  Her  eyes  were  in- 
credibly round  and  brown  and  grave.  They 
took  in  the  whole  world  and  buried  it  so  that 
you  felt  it  was  quite  lost  from  sight.  Whatever 
you  told  her  to  do,  Ritt,  she  did,  not  bravely, 
exactly,  but  with  a  sort  of  unafraid  faith,  and 
when  you  dared  her  to  push  her  head  between  the 
banisters  she  did  it,  and  when  she  found  she 
couldn't  get  it  out  again  she  almost  tore  it  from 
her  tiny  shoulders,  but  never  uttered  a  sound." 

Bourne  leaped  to  his  feet.  "It  was  I  who  did 
that,"  he  cried;  "it  was  my  head  that  got 
caught." 

"Don't  be  silly!"  said  Amelie,  impatiently. 
"Your  head  was  years  too  big.  I  got  frightened 
and  screamed  at  the  top  of  my  voice,  and  your 
mother  came  quickly  from  her  room,  one  thin 
hand  raised  against  the  wall  and  the  other  cling- 
ing to  Mr.  Schuyler's  arm  for  support.  As 
20  299 


COBWEB 

soon  as  she  saw  what  was  the  matter  she  stopped 
and  pushed  him  forward.  It  was  the  last  time 
I  saw  her.  I  remember  she  seemed  not  pale, 
but  transparent,  a  shining  woman,  if  you  know 
what  I  mean.  As  soon  as  Alloway  had  been 
saved  she  rang  and  gave  orders  to  have  the 
whole  stairway  paneled  in  oak.  Don't  you 
remember?  " 

"I  remember,"  said  Bourne.  "I  remember  it 
now."  He  stood  very  still,  staring  before  him, 
and  drew  a  deep,  quivering  breath.  "It  is  like  a 
dream  that  one  has  forgotten  and  then  tried  to 
piece  out  again.  I  got  it  wrong;  I  thought  it 
was  my  head  and  that  the  little  girl  was  looking 
on.  I  only  saw  her  that  once,  and  for  years  I've 
believed  that  she  was  only  a  fancy." 

"I'm  not  surprised  at  your  believing  that," 
said  Amelie;  "she  was  like  a  dream.  Her 
father  hurried  off  home  with  her.  Immediately 
after  that  your  mother  died  and  all  was  confusion. 
Only  we  four  had  seen  the  child  that  day,  and 
you  and  I  neyer  saw  or  heard  of  her  again.  I 
wondered,  though,  what  had  become  of  her 
when  I  read  about  her  father's  death.  It  hap- 
pened while  you  were  on  the  other  side." 

"I  read  about  it,  too,"  said  Ritt.  "I  remem- 
ber thinking  what  a  gloriously  individual  life  the 
man  had  lived  and  envying  him  a  sort  of  tri- 

300 


COBWEB 

umphant  self-sufficiency.  You  put  the  same 
thought  much  better  when  you  said  he  built  a 
world  for  himself  in  a  woman's  heart.  Amelie, 
just  one  thing  more;  there  was  a  village  men- 
tioned in  the  strange  obituary  that  said  so  little 
and  told  so  much.  Do  you  remember  its  name?  " 

Amelie  frowned.  "It  was  something  very 
familiar,  something  biblical  like  Jericho,  or 
Goshen,  or  Gilead,  or — " 

"I've  got  it!"  gasped  Bourne,  suddenly. 
"It's — why,  it's  only  just  over  a  hill  or  two  from 
here." 

He  snatched  up  his  hat  and  rushed  through  the 
door.  So  unreasoning  was  his  haste  that  he 
completely  forgot  his  motor  car.  He  ran  all  the 
way  down  the  rough  incline  through  the  woods, 
but  when  he  came  out  on  the  level  clay  road  he 
slowed  his  pace  to  a  quick  walk.  He  thought  of 
the  car  presently,  stopped  and  half  turned;  then 
he  resumed  his  walking,  lengthening  his  step  to 
the  reaching  pace  of  four  miles  to  the  hour.  He 
had  decided  that  he  would  rather  not  rush  at 
Alloway  and  her  sleepy  village  in  a  motor  car. 

When  he  came  to  the  familiar  crossways  he 
stopped  to  stare  at  the  weather-beaten  post  with 
its  two  fingers  of  fate  pointing  along  the  divided 
roads.  He  remembered  now  the  nervousness, 
only  subconsciously  noticed  at  the  time,  which 

301 


COBWEB 

Alloway  had  shown  on  the  occasion  of  their  first 
ride  as  to  which  of  these  two  ways  he  was  going 
to  take.  Feeling  thereby  reassured  in  his  con- 
viction that  he  would  find  her  at  the  end  of  the 
other  road,  he  turned  into  it  with  quickly  beating 
heart  and  resumed  his  rapid  stride. 

He  was  dumf  ounded  at  the  simplicity  and  the 
completeness  of  the  revelation  of  Allo way's  mys- 
tery. The  more  he  thought  of  the  strange  ada- 
mantine character  and  paradoxically  romantic 
history  of  Eben  Schuyler,  the  more  he  realized 
that  the  unsullied  flower  which  had  continually 
astonished  him  even  while  it  won  his  love  could 
have  sprung  from  no  other  soil  than  the  clois- 
tered nook  where  the  recluse,  scholar,  gourmet 
d' esprit,  and  supernal  lover  had  built  his  temple  to 
the  steadfast  heart. 

In  due  course  he  entered  the  outskirts  of  the 
quaint  village  which  was  his  objective.  He 
stopped  and  leaned  on  the  whitewashed  palings 
which  fenced  an  old-fashioned  garden  where  a 
child  was  playing  amid  a  swirl  of  fallen  leaves. 
Two  men  and  a  woman  passed  separately  while 
he  waited,  but  there  was  a  fineness  in  his  mood 
which  made  him  wish  to  learn  what  he  needed 
to  know  not  from  withered  maturity,  but  from 
fresh  and  budding  lips. 

"Hello!"  he  said,  presently. 
302 


COBWEB 

"Hello!"  replied  the  child,  having  first  valued 
his  smile  with  grave  eyes. 

"If  all  the  leaves  in  all  the  world  fell  into  your 
garden,  what  would  you  do?"  he  asked. 

The  child  considered  for  a  moment,  and  then 
answered,  with  youthful  practicality,  "Play 
wif  'em." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  Ritt,  with  a  solemn 
shake  of  his  head.  "They  would  bury  you  as 
deep  as  the  sky  and  I  would  have  to  jump  over 
the  fence  and  save  you." 

"How?"  asked  the  little  girl. 

"With  a  broom,"  he  answered,  promptly. 

She  glanced  around  her  and  frowned.  "What 
broom?"  she  asked. 

Ritt  looked  up  into  the  towering  elm  above  his 
head.  "With  this  tree,"  he  said,  gravely.  "I'd 
turn  it  upside  down  and  use  it  for  a  broom  and 
sweep  and  sweep  and  sweep  until  I  swept  all  the 
leaves  in  the  world  away." 

The  child  looked  intently  at  the  great  tree, 
sighed  deeply  with  satisfaction  at  the  wonderful 
answer,  dropped  the  leaves  her  hands  were  clutch- 
ing, and  ran  to  the  fence  where  he  was  standing. 
"Tell  me  a  story,"  she  said,  with  sure  instinct. 

Ritt  smiled  down  at  her.  "Not  now,"  he 
said;  "not  to-day.  I'm  very  busy  this  morning. 
Has  Miss  Alloway  ever  told  you  stories?" 

303 


COBWEB 

The  child  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  answered,  and 
then  added,  with  a  coy,  ingratiating  twist  of  her 
head,  "When  will  you  won't  be  busy?" 

"After  I've  talked  with  Miss  Alloway,"  said 
Ritt.  "But  I  don't  know  where  she  lives." 

The  little  girl  looked  up  in  surprise.  "She 
lives  hi  the  big  house,"  she  said,  doubtfully,  as 
though  she  believed  he  must  be  joking. 

"Which  big  house?"  he  asked,  gravely. 

She  hesitated,  studying  his  face,  then  climbed 
on  the  lower  rail  of  the  fence  and,  stretching  one 
fat  arm  across  the  palings,  pointed  a  little  way 
down  the  street  at  a  long  double  avenue  of  elms, 
graceful  even  in  their  denudation. 

"There,"  she  said,  leaning  over  so  far  that  he 
feared  she  would  tumble. 

He  went  along  the  wide  village  street  until  he 
came  opposite  the  double  avenue  of  trees,  and 
then  turned  sharply  to  look  down  the  colonnade. 
At  its  end  gleamed  a  stately  house,  one  of  those 
masterpieces  of  simplicity  evolved  by  the  Col- 
onial mind.  Its  square  front  was  surmounted  by 
a  wide-winged  gable  supported  on  high,  fluted 
pillars  of  perfect  proportion,  massive  in  girth 
yet  giving  an  impression  of  aspiring  lightness 
gracing  the  brow  of  dignity.  The  broad  steps 
and  the  shallow  veranda  were  relieved,  as  was  the 
glimmering  whiteness  of  the  whole  structure, 

304 


COBWEB 

by  the  oblong  patches  of  leaf-green  shutters, 
and  the  entrance  door  itself  was  one  of  those  gems 
which  still  reward  the  eye  of  the  rare  unhurried 
traveler  through  the  byways  of  New  England. 
From  the  extremities  of  the  two  wings  of  the  house 
a  high  privet  hedge  extended  its  length  to  right 
and  left,  half  veiling  the  red  brick  of  a  vast 
walled  garden. 

Ritt  approached  the  door  with  slow  but  ,un- 
wavering  steps;  he  raised  the  heavy  knocker  and 
let  it  fall.  After  a  moment's  interval  an  old 
woman  wearing  bowed  spectacles  and  a  lace  cap 
opened  to  him,  and  he  felt  a  quivering  smile  of 
surprise  and  disappointment  cross  his  face.  He 
had  been  braced  to  meet  his  wife  face  to  face. 

"I  have  come  to  see  Miss  Alloway,"  he  said, 
quite  simply.  "Can  you  tell  me  where  I'll  find 
her?" 

"She's  in  the  library,"  said  the  old  house- 
keeper, holding  the  door  only  half  open,  as 
though  in  doubt  as  to  whether  she  should  admit 
him. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Bourne,  pushing  past  her. 
"I'm  sure  she's  expecting  me." 

He  glanced  to  right  and  left  as  he  entered  the 
hall,  but  did  not  hesitate;  a  knowledge  of  such 
old  houses  as  this  one  was  a  part  of  his  inheri- 
tance. An  instinct  for  the  anatomy  of  any  long- 
305 


COBWEB 

established  home  led  him  unerringly  to  a  closed 
door  which  he  opened  without  knocking  and 
quietly  closed  behind  him. 

The  great  brown  room  seemed  throbbingly 
silent,  yet  very  much  alive.  A  wood  fire  burned 
busily  in  a  wide  hearth;  the  drawn  curtains  ad- 
mitted the  soft  light  of  the  winter  day  and  the 
deep  shadows  reached  forward  as  though  to  wel- 
come its  gentle  presence.  On  the  floor  before  the 
fire  sat  Alloway,  leaning  back  against  the  seat  of 
a  low  couch,  and  all  about  her  were  scattered 
open  books  which  by  their  full-page  illustrations 
he  could  see  to  be  rare  tomes  of  travel,  treatises 
on  ancient  ceramics,  and  priceless  catalogues  of 
the  noble  textures  which  have  graced  the  halls  of 
temples  and  of  kings. 

Her  hair  lay  upon  her  back  in  a  loosed  flood  of 
gold,  constrained  at  the  neck  only  by  a  great  bow 
of  bronze-colored  ribbon.  She  wore  a  simple 
frock  of  dark  brown  cut  in  a  square  yoke  upon 
her  white  shoulders,  and  within  its  soft  folds 
gleamed  the  pallor  of  her  folded  arms.  Her 
knees  were  steeply  raised,  and  over  them  she 
gazed  into  the  fire,  her  eyes  wide  and  luminous. 
On  her  still  face  a  heartbreaking  wistfulness  lay 
like  a  transparent  but  integral  shadow. 

"Alloway!"  whispered  Bourne. 

Without  visible  movement  she  grew  vibrantly 
306 


COBWEB 

alert;  then  her  head  turned  very  slowly,  as 
though  her  eyes  would  sweep  the  wide  world 
upon  which  they  had  been  gazing,  to  catch  upon 
its  very  horizon  an  expected  messenger  of  glad 
tidings.  They  came  to  rest  with  an  abrupt 
stop  on  Bourne's  figure,  and  with  a  movement 
as  of  rising  waters  enveloped  him  gradually  in  a 
warm  flood  of  understanding  vision;  still  she 
did  not  move  or  speak. 

He  dropped  his  hat,  stepped  forward,  and 
kneeled  beside  her.  "Alloway,"  he  whispered, 
his  eyes  giving  hers  flood  for  flood,  "I  have  come 
back  to  you;  I  want  you  to  take  me  into  your 
dreams  of  far  places  and  never,  never  again  leave 
me  behind  in  the  ugly  desert  world  of  a  heart 
terribly  alone.  Oh,  darling,  forgive  me!  Take 
me  back!  I'm  going  to  cry  like  a  baby.  For 
God's  own  sake  let  me  hide  my  face  in  your 
breast!" 

With  a  single  swift  movement  of  her  supple 
body  Alloway  arose  and  stepped  back  from  him. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  erect  before  her, 
clenched  hands  at  his  sides.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  suddenly  halted  as  the 
new  strength,  acquired  through  hours  of  suffer- 
ing, welled  up  within  him  and  held  him  steady 
under  the  fire  of  her  measuring  regard.  He  ex- 
perienced an  extraordinary  moment  of  detach- 

307 


COBWEB 

ment,  as  though  he  had  become  a  mere  spectator, 
a  disinterested  onlooker  beside  a  field  of  battle. 
Scales  fell  from  his  eyes. 

Before  him  stood  no  creature  of  fancy,  but  a 
woman,  subject  to  age,  to  grief,  and  conceivably 
to  sin.  The  hair  falling  in  disorder  upon  her 
shoulders  did  not  seem  incongruous;  it  but  added 
its  note  to  the  revealing  moment.  Drawn  to  her 
full  stature,  she  gave  the  impression  of  a  serene 
arbiter  holding  the  even  scales  of  justice,  though 
in  trembling  hands.  He  was  aware  of  measuring 
his  immobility  against  hers,  of  pitting  power 
against  an  almost  impersonal  resistance  and 
gradually  conquering. 

Quite  suddenly  she  melted.  Youth  returned  to 
its  own.  Her  face  became  girlish,  convulsed. 
"Ritt!"  she  cried,  and  hurled  herself  into  his 
arms. 

"I've  never  traveled,"  she  sobbed.  "I've 
never  seen  the  Middle  Kingdom  or  the  Persian 
looms  or  the  Ouvidor  in  Rio  or  the  Street  of  the 
Theaters  in  Old  Kyoto.  I'm  a  country  girl. 
Just  here  I've  lived  always  and  always  until  my 
father  died,  and  I  grew  lonely  and  ran  away  and 
played  with  fancies  and  began  to  live  fancies  and 
— and  lied  my  way  into  your  heart!  You  said — 
you  said — you  talked  about  the  'holding  power 
of  mystery.'  It  was  the  first  serious  thing  you 

308 


COBWEB 

ever  said  to  me.  How  could  I  forget  it?  I 
remembered  it  always;  I  tried  to  tangle  you 
in  just  a  spider's  web  spun  in  the  corner  of  an 
old  walled  garden.  Men,  big  men  like  you, 
can't  be  held  by — by  foolish  gossamer." 

Her  voice  broke  on  that  first  surrender  to 
philosophic  deduction.  Ritt  gathered  her  into  his 
arms,  cradled  and  rocked  her  to  and  fro.  "Finish 
crying,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  "and  then 
listen  to  me.  Will  you?  Will  you  listen  now?" 

She  nodded  her  head  against  his  breast,  drew 
two  deep  whimpering  sighs  and  then  looked 
anxiously  up  into  his  face. 

"You  are  the  eighth  and  ninth  wonders  of  the 
small  round  world,"  he  began.  " If  we  could  live 
side  by  side  for  a  thousand  years  I'd  never 
finish  unraveling  all  the  paths  of  you.  While  I 
stood  there,  just  inside  the  door,  and  watched, 
I  knew  that  you  were  a  thousand  women,  one 
for  each  of  the  thousand  years;  and  that  if  you 
would  only  let  me  stay  I  could  find  one  of  you 
every  spring,  woo  her  every  summer,  win  her  in 
October,  and  hold  her  for  just  a  winter.  Don't 
send  me  away,  Alloway,  my  dear,"  he  begged. 
"Oh,  darling,  I  love  you  so!" 

She  raised  her  lips  to  his  and  he  kissed  them 
gently,  as  though  he  were  half  afraid. 

"Never.  I'll  never  send  you  away,"  she 
309 


COBWEB 

whispered,  "because  you  found  me.    But,  Ritt, 
it  is  wicked  to  lie,  isn't  it?  " 

"Very,"  said  Bourne,  promptly.  "Do  you 
love  me?" 

"I  do,"  replied  Alloway. 

"You'll  never  run  one  inch  away  from  my 
heart  again?" 

She  did  not  answer.  Alarmed  by  the  pause,  he 
looked  down  into  her  face,  but  smiled  when  he 
saw  the  roguish  light  in  her  eyes  and  the  mis- 
chievous quirk  of  her  lips. 

"Supposing,"  she  said,  "just  supposing  that  we 
were  out  in  the  garden  here  on  a  summer's  night 
and  I  should  see  one  of  those  slanting  beams  that 
climb  from  the  fairies'  pot  of  gold  to  kiss  the 
laughing  moon;  supposing  I  should  run  up  it  and 
dig  hard  little  stars  out  of  the  astonished  sky 
and — and  pelt  you  with  them — would  you  call 
that  running  away  from  your  heart?" 

"No,"  said  Ritt.  "I  would  call  it  running 
straight  into  it." 

He  sat  down  on  the  couch  and  drew  her  into 
the  angle  of  his  arm.  "Come  close  to  me,"  he 
said;  "closer.  It's  only  when  I  feel  how  warm 
you  are  that  I  can  touch  ground  with  my  feet. 
Do  you  know,  dear,  that  it  was  really  your 
head  that  got  caught  between  the  balusters  at  the 
Murray  Hill  house?" 

310 


COBWEB 

"Truly,  Ritt?"  cried  Alloway.  "I  thought 
I  must  have  dreamed  it." 

"I,  too/'  said  Ritt.  "I  suppose  we  all  have 
realities  like  that  mixed  with  our  childhood's 
dreams.  It's  wonderful  and  amazing,  just  a 
little  unsettling,  to  catch  up  with  a  dream.  I 
don't  know  how  others  see  you — whether  they 
say,  'There  goes  a  fine-looking  girl,'  and  let  it 
pass  at  that — perhaps  I  have  been  struck  by  the 
old,  old  blindness  which  is  the  greatest  gift  of 
God;  but  all  I  ask  is  to  be  near  you,  to  touch 
you  with  groping  hands,  to  weigh  you  on  a  scale 
as  light  as  the  swaying  bough  of  a  rose  bush,  to 
hear  you  murmur,  'I  was  born  under  no  cloud, 
but  at  the  meeting  of  night  and  day,'  and  to 
learn  long  afterward  how  soft  the  caress  your 
tongue  had  laid  on  the  sacrifice  of  your  mother, 
who  gave  her  life  that  you  might  live." 

Alloway  drew  a  long,  quivering  breath. 

"There,  dear,  don't  cry,"  continued  Ritt, 
holding  her  body  still  nearer  to  him.  "Hearts 
do  not  live  by  happiness  alone.  Remember  that. 
Grief  doesn't  bruise  them;  only  treachery.  I 
regret  nothing;  neither  the  fool  that  passion 
made  of  me,  nor  the  fright  and  torment  of  the 
hours  we  have  been  apart,  nor  even  the  hurt  to 
you.  How  else  could  I  have  found  you — truly 
found  you — crept  straight  into  the  arms  of  your 

311 


COBWEB 

childhood  across  the  threshold  of  this  throbbing 
room?" 

Alloway's  eyes  wandered  and  hung  poised 
here  and  there  with  slow  deepenings  in  their  ex- 
pression of  affection.  "I  never  think  of  it  as  a 
room,"  she  said,  presently;  "it's  just  part  of  me 
like  my  hand  or  my  leg,  something  one  couldn't 
possibly  cut  off  and  live.  If  some  terrible  thing 
had  prevented  your  coming,  this  room  would 
have  saved  me  as  it  saved  my  father.  We  used 
to  travel  here  a  great  deal,  Ritt.  He  was  a 
wonderful  man — an  endless  man.  Everybody  in 
the  village  knew  him;  but  no  one  knew  all  of 
him — not  even  I." 

"You  can  never  quite  "know,"  said  Ritt,  "just 
how  the  tale  printed  at  his  death  rang  out  across 
the  world.  I  won't  ever  be  able  to  tell  you  just 
what  it  awakened  in  me;  I'll  have  to  live  it  to 
you  day  by  day.  That  dry  newspaper  story 
was  like  the  shell  of  a  great  bronze  bell  pealing 
out  the  news  that  love  still  lives." 

"How  extraordinary!"  exclaimed  Alloway. 
"How  wonderful  that  you  should  say  that!" 
She  turned  in  his  arms,  freed  her  hands,  and 
drew  from  a  drawer  in  the  massive  table  behind 
the  couch  a  large  square  book,  so  loosely  bound 
that  it  opened  flat  upon  her  knee.  On  the  front 
cover,  in  bold  lettering,  stood  the  name  of  Eben 

312 


COBWEB 

Schuyler,  and  within,  each  page  bore  a  single 
entry  written  in  a  severe  Spencerian  hand,  blacker 
and  clearer  than  print.  Turning  the  leaves 
rapidly,  Alloway  laid  her  ringer  on  the  last 
writing  in  the  volume. 

"Read  it,  Ritt,"  she  whispered.  "Read  it 
aloud  to  me." 

Bourne  read  the  lines  first  to  himself  and  then 
aloud  in  a  voice  which  he  himself  scarcely 
recognized. 

"Love  lives, 
Love  breathes, 
Love  rides  the  wind; 

Uncaged,  its  laughing  pinions  sweep  the  skies 
Above  the  tiny  snares  our  hearts  still  set 
To  trap  it. 

"Yet  will  I  stand  with  face  upturned, 
Myself  a  cup  of  faith, 
Content  that  in  my  breast  hath  lodged 
A  single  fluttering  feather  from  the  wings  of  God." 


THE   END 


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